


Wingman

by posingasme



Series: Before 200... [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 65,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Sam and Castiel have been honest with one another, and Dean has given his blessing, the two are forced into the awkward stage of figuring out where to go from here. </p><p>Dean is still battling against the Mark, and his anxiety manifests in various ways, some of which are healthier than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Needy Greedy and Seedy

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for First 10 Seasons. Seriously, there's a reference to almost every single one of the first 199 episodes in this series. It's like a scavenger hunt of references. Collect them all.

Scapular to tip, Castiel was black as a raven. It was the black of the Impala, of a moonless night, of grease on Dean's rough hands, of good coffee and strong boots, of Bobby's old books, of every comfort he had ever known.

Now that Sam's senses were opening to things about Castiel he had never been able to perceive before, it was overwhelming. He could hear the rustle whenever Castiel turned now, not only when he flew. He could smell a musk when the angel was near, one that pulled a primal desire from him each and every time it caught his nose. He knew now that the blue in Castiel's eyes glowed far more often than he had ever thought, whenever the angel felt any strong emotion.

But the wings.

God, _the wings_.

He knew Castiel was meditating but he could not stop his hand reaching out to touch the soft black feathers.

Castiel startled badly, and the wings burst out in a defensive manner even Sam could recognize.

His hands flew up, palms out. "Shit. I'm sorry, man."

The blue eyes rolled in exasperation, and Castiel climbed to his feet. "Sam," he began.

"Sorry, Cas. I just..."

"You wanted to touch them. I know. But you must warn me, Sam. I had my blade out."

Sam's eyes flicked down to Castiel's hand to find the angel blade in his grip. "You meditate with your weapon?"

"You sleep with yours."

Sam could not argue. "Yeah. I am sorry."

"It's all right, Sam. But you must remember, it has been literally ages since anyone has touched my wings, except in combat. And I would hate to put my blade into your chest simply because you did not warn me of your presence."

Sam sat on the couch nearby. "Thought you could always hear me."

"I am still not skilled with meditation, but I think I've moved beyond listening for footsteps and heartbeats behind me."

Sam wondered if there would ever be a time when he achieved a level of peace which allowed him to ignore footsteps behind him. As nice as that sounded, he hoped not. That just seemed like vulnerability to him.

"Did you need something?"

He hesitated. "No," he murmured. "Not really. Dean is working on his car. Fan belt or something. So he's in the garage."

"Yes?"

His large feet shuffled anxiously. "So, um. So we're as alone as we ever get. He'll be gone for hours."

Castiel nodded. "All right?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Cas?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"You...I..."

Castiel tilted his head. "Sam, do you need something?" he asked again.

Sam grabbed his hand. "God, yes," he blurted, and yanked the angel to him clumsily. He saw Castiel's eyes go wide, then he saw nothing as their lips connected. Castiel was half on the couch, half draped onto the floor.

Unlike his angel, Sam eventually had to come up for air. He pulled his mouth away from Castiel's sweet pink lips, and gulped in a breath, relishing the intoxicating taste and smell of his angel.

"Sam," Castiel sighed.

"So when I say Dean is busy and we are alone, is it clearer now what I mean?"

A sheepish smile crept up on his face. "Yes, Sam." He looked at him lovingly. "Sam, may I touch your hair?"

The hunter smirked. "Of course. But what the hell is that compared to your wings?"

Castiel looked surprised. "It's you," he said simply, as though that explained all. "Sam, every angel has one defining physical characteristic. His wings identity him no matter what form he is in. Your hair is the same. It's changed in a hundred ways since I met you, but I would know it by soft touch and sweet smell always. It is unique to you."

"Cas, I'm Samuel, not Samson."

"And yet your time with Ruby might suggest a parallel," Castiel scolded bitterly.

Sam rolled his eyes and stood. "Yeah. Okay. Are you going to berate me for mistakes of five years ago or are you going to come make out with me?"

"Make what out?"

He grabbed Castiel's hand and yanked again, this time pulling him behind his own hurry toward the bedroom door, slamming and locking it behind them.

"Oh."

Sam grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled roughly. "Damn right, oh." His own neck bent to close the four inches between his lips and Castiel's. He let his tongue brush that soft mouth, felt Castiel grip his arms in surprise.

At last, what little experience Castiel had collected in his long life, mixed with instinct and raw desire, pushed him up into Sam's hungry mouth, and finally he was kissing him back, gulping in his human's taste, his breath, his want. He extracted from Sam's throat a whimper, and he swallowed that down too. His wings spread behind him, reacting to his arousal, and he made no attempt to calm them.

Sam was pulling him again, this time gently, but with a new level of urgency. He lay Castiel onto the bed, careful to give space to his wings, even though he knew they did not need it. The wings were, as Castiel had explained, extraplanar. So they did not actually occupy space. But since recent events had facilitated Sam's ability to perceive them, even to feel them as they truly were, he could not help considering their comfort.

"Sam?"

"What?" he snapped in frustration. He took a breath and forced a smile, one that he hoped didn't reek of lust. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What? Am I hurting you?"

Castiel stared at him. "No. That isn't even possible."

"Then what, Cas?" he pleaded urgently. He desperately wanted to get back to touching the lips and feathers laid out before him. Then he stopped, his heart lurching painfully in realization. "You don't want this."

"Sam-"

"Shit." The hunter raised himself. His breath came fast and shallow, his eyes revealing every ounce of his devastation and humiliation. "You don't...Cas, I'm so sorry. I should have known...you know, not to assume...you know."

Castiel was frowning up at him and narrowing his eyes. "Sam, I never know. When you and your brother say that."

"What?"

The angel sighed. "Sam, lie down with me."

It was a request, but even though Sam's stomach was at odds with certain other parts of his anatomy, he allowed himself to lower into the bed of feathers to rest his head on Castiel's strong arm. He took one jagged breath, then willed his emotions under control. He waited. His eyes closed, and he let himself be comforted by Castiel's warmth.

Finally, the angel spoke again, in his gruff gravel voice that Sam could feel rumbling in his own chest. "Sam, it has been four days since you pulled me back from death. It has been three days since you could even look in my eyes when you talk. And this afternoon, you nearly fell from your chair when I touched your neck in passing."

Sam frowned.

"I'm afraid I don't know what is expected here."

"Expected?" Sam breathed, hurt lacing his words. "Cas, you're not expected to do anything!"

"I don't think that is true. I don't know how I can give you what you want unless I understand finally what that is. One moment, you flinch from my touch, and the next you reach for it. If this is normally how humans react to being in love, I'm afraid I may not be able to do my part."

A shuddering sigh rippled through Sam, and he felt Castiel's grip on him tighten protectively. It felt good. Sam was not one for cuddling. He rarely initiated contact at all, and when he did, it was generally rough and hurried. Even the way Sam enjoyed sex revealed a man who took what he needed as hard and fast as he could before he changed his mind, as if he never expected there to be another chance, as if passion could replace intimacy in his life, as long as it was intense enough.

But when Castiel pulled him in, he could not help the twinge of gratitude for the strong arms and sweet musky smell enveloping him.

"Cas," he said finally, "I do love you. I am human, and I've been with quite a few other humans before. But that doesn't mean I know what I'm doing any better than you."

To his surprise, Castiel began to laugh. It was quiet, but the movement shook the bed. "Sam, I wonder if we might be the most awkward pair in history. And being of two species and cultures is not helping."

Sam smiled too. It was oddly relieving to hear Castiel say these things aloud. It seemed to ease some of the pressure and tension to admit they both felt awkward and clueless. "You may be right," he responded. "Not sure what angel culture is like."

"Saying angel culture is like saying human culture. There are far more than just one."

Sam lifted himself onto his elbow to look down at his angel's face. This was more comfortable. Even though he wanted badly to tear into Castiel's clothes, he found that he was content with this casual intimacy for now. There could be touch between them like this, and they could ease into everything else. He brushed his fingers along Castiel's throat lovingly. "Are there?" he asked.

Castiel was smiling up at him with adoration. He too seemed happy with the newly developed pace. It was far better than the anxious stolen kisses and nerve-wracking attempts at touch from the past few days, and had less panicked urgency than Sam's assault from two minutes before.

"There are types of angels, as you know. The messengers, the musicians of the Choir, the bureaucrats."

Sam laughed. "Like Naomi and Zachariah."

"Perhaps Zachariah. I suspect Naomi preferred field work, that she was a warrior at heart, but was forced by circumstance to become an administrator. It seems to me things might have gone very differently had she not been compelled to be something she was not created for."

"And what were you created for, angel?"

Castiel looked up at him, amused. "You know that."

"Tell me. I like hearing your voice." He put his large hand over the angel's chest. "I like feeling your voice."

Castiel smirked, but obliged. "I'm a soldier, Sam. All angels learn to fight, but some of us were created for it specifically. After the Leviathans, our Father chose not to make us wholly omnipotent. Instead, Michael created garrisons which combined the forces of many to perform tasks too great for any one."

"What were your tasks?"

He shrugged. Sam could feel his muscles and wings relaxing beneath him. "We spent a great deal of our time before humans were created preparing the universe for your arrival. The archangels brought forth our Father's light and darkness in abstract, then he created the rest of us to do our jobs. While scribes recorded, the Choir orchestrated the explosion of the cosmos, set the universe spinning. They compressed the atoms, formed the earth and its sisters, and all the bodies and emptiness in space. Their music facilitated the creation of the oceans and triggered the ever-moving tectonics to allow this world to evolve. Finally, they struck the chord that inspired a minute life to form, and their job was finished; ours began."

Sam was fascinated. His cravings had died down with the unspoken promise of future fulfillment. Now he wanted Castiel to tell him everything he knew. "Your job as warriors began with the first spark of life on earth?"

"Certainly. As soon as there is life, there must be something which could destroy it."

The hunter stared at him in shock. "That's...that's horrible!"

Castiel looked at him. "Is it?"

"Yeah! It really is!"

He raised an eyebrow. "The other gods were born about that time, awakening from the power of the universe's creation. Kali and Shiva came forth like storms. From Chaos and Aether sprang Uranus, Eros and Gaia, Erebus, Tartarus and Nyx. Ra, Isis and Amun followed, creeping like subtle cats onto the scene. Tiamat and Abzû claimed great regions for themselves. Kokopelli and Ekeko began traveling and scheming, and Odin drew himself up to watch. Thousands upon thousands of gods slipped from the universe's womb, and we soldiers protected the new life's spark with our own lives."

There was a twitch of a smile at the corners of Sam's mouth. "You weren't created to kill the new life. You were meant to guard it."

"Of course. Many of the new gods joined us in its protection, but many resented it. There were battles which shook the earth, creating the canyons and bursting the volcanos. Angels were lost, new gods torn down, but the life persisted even so. By the time it began to evolve into multicellular life, my garrison was charged with keeping an eye on Mozh, Unu and Hegiz, in the area of what is now the Caucuses. They sought to combine their forces to block the sun from this life, starve it, and feed it poison."

"Soviet bad guys?"

Castiel frowned, as if not quite sure Sam had understood. "The goddesses of the eclipse and disease."

"Okay. And when did you become the Angel of Thursday?"

He took a long breath. "I doubt the Norse would refer to me as such. Thor and I once came to blows after he had been imbibing, and he became blasphemous. He had some inelegant things to say regarding Michael's relationship with our Father. When I indicated a particularly crude use for his own father's remaining eye, he lunged at me, and I was forced to subdue him. From that point, my garrison enjoyed ruffling my feathers by referring to the incident as Thor's Day, and I as the patron of it."

"You beat up Thor."

Another sigh, this one a bit embarrassed, escaped Castiel's lips. "He is both less tactful and less tactical while intoxicated."

Sam burst into laughter. "Cas, I love you. I really, truly do."

He received a confused smile. "I love you too, Sam. Any other questions?”

So many. Too many. But one in particular popped into his head, and a blush crept across his face. “Yeah. Do you still find my voice grating?”

Castiel’s eyes widened in horror. “What?”

Sam shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’re less tactful after drinking too, you know. You once told me you find my voice grating.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You did. I had left you a voice message on your phone, and you complained that it was too long, and that my voice grated on your nerves.”

“I think you may have dreamed this incident.”

But Sam could see the sheepish look in those blue eyes, and he laughed. “You do remember! You jackass!”

“Sam,” Castiel said quickly, “you have to understand. English is not my native tongue, and human voices are...not angelic.”

Sam sat up and put his hands on Castiel’s chest. “Is that so?” he chuckled. “Well, I’m sorry to have offended your sensibilities.”

The angel sighed in exasperation. “Sam, I do not find your voice grating.”

“Really?”

“Certainly no more than any other human’s.”

Sam’s mouth dropped until he saw the sparkle of humor in the blue gaze. “Oh my god. Are you...teasing me?”

Castiel’s wings wrapped around the large man and pulled him down onto his chest, where his arms trapped him. “Of course not,” he laughed. “Sam, your voice is many things, but grating is not one of them. I’ve had many misplaced opinions of you over the years, and I think I’ve corrected them.”

Sam settled into Castiel’s strong chest then, and he realized it felt good to know his bulk could not hurt him, that the angel was far stronger than he. He closed his eyes and listened to the wings rustling around him. “Like abomination?” he murmured.

“You are a blessing,” he said with conviction, and held the man closer, stroking his hair gently. “You’ll never be ordinary as I know you might choose to be, but, Sam, you have never been anathema to my mission. I just didn’t always know that. So I apologize.”

“Your mission? Cas, I couldn’t care any less about your mission. The only part of Heaven I care anything about is you. Maybe you think that’s blasphemous, or something, but it’s true. After all this time, you can’t possibly think your mission has any meaning anymore.”

The dark feathers faded back from Sam’s form then, and he could feel the angel’s chest flinch. He lifted himself to look. Castiel was staring at him.

“Cas?”

“Sam, that may or may not be blasphemy. I couldn’t pretend to know anymore. But maybe you don’t know how I understand my purpose.”

“What purpose?”

A dark eyebrow lifted, and there was another wince. “Humans don’t need a purpose, I suppose. But I do. My Father might not be willing to communicate with me. I may not be able to trust Heaven. But I will always stay on the course of the last command I was given that made sense to me.”

Fascination, and something like awe, filled Sam’s eyes. “What is that?”

“My mission, Sam, the last one I understood, was to observe and protect humanity, especially you and your brother, to carry out Dean’s orders and keep you both from the grasp of evil. Even more than I love you, Sam, more than I care for your brother as my own, now that my head is clear of manipulation, I know my job is to protect you, and that mission must always come first.”

Sam was surprised to find himself smiling. “Yeah? So what’s my mission?”

The angel tilted his head, narrowing his stare. “I suppose...you would have to ask Dean about that.”

A snort erupted from Sam. “Like hell! He might be your commander, dude, but he’s the same guy I know once ran eight blocks from a freaking Yorkie terrier.”

The confusion on Castiel’s face only grew. “A...a what?”

“Yeah. Once you’ve seen Dean throw back a purple nurple, or toss down his pants to yell about pudding, or pass out on a sack of potatoes while wearing a hairnet, or catch him enjoying a motel bed with magic fingers, or my personal favorite which is haul his ass into a car to prevent him from murdering a freaking pigeon with a .45...you can never take him seriously again. On a hunt, sure, but otherwise, Dean doesn’t get to decide about anything in our lives except what pie to bring home.”

Castiel frowned quietly. “He did choose to spend a great deal of his time as a demon singing karaoke, if he’s to be believed. And he once interrupted the Apocalypse to comment on my choice of insult. It was actually the last thing he said to me before Lucifer shattered the structural integrity of my vessel.”

Sam nodded, smiled, and raised his eyebrows as if to say that his point has been made.

***

Dean never thought he'd be glad to see his brother fawning over an angel dude. But he was grateful that Sam and Castiel were so wrapped up in each other- _Dammit, no mental images!_ -that they had not noticed Dean wasn't eating. At all.

Castiel had asked him about his sleep several times, and Dean had clucked at him as a reminder that he thought of him as a mother hen, and did not answer. But neither of the lovebirds remembered to bring up the eating thing.

And what would he say if they did? _Shut up, I'm eating fine? It's none of your business?_ Or how about the truth? _I can't feed the demon. I've tried, but it feels too much like giving in._

Sam would love that. He'd probably make Castiel force feed him.

So he cooked. Every night, he put together a soup or burgers, made a chili that had curled the angel's toes when he had given in to curiosity. In a fit of nostalgia, he made garlic bread covered in mozzarella the way Ben had liked it.

Because he was cooking, the inference was that he was also eating.

He drank less alcohol but more coffee. And sometimes he combined the two when Sam was not looking.

Really, it had been easy to hide his repulsion of food. It was not until he had stepped out of the garage and onto the stairs on the fourth day, and felt blackness wash over him, that he knew the jig was up.

The thud could have been heard anywhere in the bunker, but Dean's own ears were blissfully unaware for several minutes that his brother was shouting at him. It was not until Sam smacked his face that his eyes fluttered open.

"Dammit!" he yelped groggily. "The hell, you little shit..." He was so disoriented that he found himself wondering when Sam had gotten so enormous, until he remembered it had happened about 15 years ago.

"Dean, what's wrong with you?"

"Sam, should I...?"

"Hang on," Dean grumbled, forcing himself to sit up by leaning his weight on Sam's arm. "The hell am I?"

"Dean, you're at the bottom of the staircase."

"One can only assume," Castiel muttered, "that you fell down them."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" he shouted angrily. "Get off me." He shoved his brother weakly, and pulled his legs in to stand, then collapsed in pain. "Shit!"

Sam grabbed his brother's arm and slung it over his shoulder to lift him. He ignored Dean's cries of protest and half-led, half-carried him to the living area of the bunker, and dropped him onto the couch without ceremony. "Now what the hell happened?"

Dean's flustered anger could not cover his embarrassment. "Dammit, Sam, I fell, okay? Must have torn up my pins saving your ass back at Harlan."

Castiel's eyebrows shot up, but Dean's glower silenced him.

"You still got pins in your leg? What, from that thing at Bobby's? Dean, that was forever ago. And since when do you fall? You're like a freaking cat!"

"Cats fall, doofus. They're just good at landing."

"Yeah, well, you suck at landings."

Dean cleared his throat. "Dr. Quinn, medicine angel, would you tell him I'm fine?" He glared evenly at Castiel.

The angel licked his lips. "I'm sure the fall has not damaged your brother's brain any more severely than his chosen lifestyle has over the years."

Sam's eyes rolled dramatically. "Whatever. Don't heal him while he's being a bitch, Cas. I'm going back to my computer. You coming?"

"In a moment."

Sam stalked out of the room irritably.

Castiel wasted no time in smacking his palm into Dean's forehead.

"Shit! What the crap, Cas?"

The cool healing flooded through him. His leg repaired, his ankle straightened, but his insides still ached horribly. "I can't do much for your self-deprivation, you ungrateful ass," the angel growled dangerously.

Dean smiled weakly. "Wow. Really? That's the very definition of kicking a guy when he's-"

"Starving?"

He pulled his hand down his face wearily. "I'm not starving. That's stupid. Starving is like a month without food or something.”

“And how long has it been since you ate more than one meal in a twenty-four hour period? For that matter, how long has it been since you ate one meal? Dean, you expend more calories in a day than most men, and yet you have neglected your most basic needs. You don’t sleep. You refuse to eat. If you think I haven’t noticed, you’re quite wrong. I have not brought it up because I’m tired of you upsetting Sam, and I honestly don’t know what to do with you anymore. You’re determined to-“

“Cas, stop.” Dean closed his eyes. “Look, man, yelling at me isn’t going to make me want to eat any more than I do now.”

“I did not raise my voice.”

“You healed me by hitting me in my head.”

“And that was more than you deserved. It was that or smite you.” 

Dean had no answer for that.

“Coffee and whiskey are not nourishment, Dean. And you are not a child.”

“Look, I don’t know how I ended up at the bottom of the stairs. Okay?”

Castiel’s eyes flashed angrily. “I do. You tried to walk up them. When you fell unconscious, you literally fell, unconscious. Your brother-“

“Don’t tell Sam. Just…don’t. He’s got enough going on right now.”

The angel glared at him, licking at his lips with his pink tongue. “I’m not going to tell him anything that should come from you. But I will not lie to him. So don’t even ask me to.”

Dean sat up straighter, testing his steadiness. “Dude, I’m not going to make you lie. Okay? I’m figuring out this thing; I just need some more time. You and Sam do whatever it is you do, and stop worrying. This won’t happen again. I promise. How are you two, anyway? I’ve barely seen Sam since we all came back to the bunker and decided to take a sabbatical. He going crazy yet?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice. He knew Sam needed a break. And he knew Sam wanted to give him time too. Neither of them wanted Castiel to use his Grace any more than he had to. But the inactivity was making Dean lose his mind. No matter what Sam said, no matter how much glaring Castiel did, he wanted badly to get back to work. He needed it. And he knew, under normal circumstances, Sam did too. But this thing with Castiel? It was big enough to keep his brother’s brain occupied. Dean did not have such an outlet. “Maybe I should go to Vegas or New Orleans or someplace.”

To his surprise, Castiel shrugged. “Maybe you should.”

“Yeah? You guys would be okay with that?”

“Dean, I have no idea what to say to you. I’ve never been a parent, and I don’t like being one now. I’m not strong enough to follow you around and be your nursemaid. Perhaps you could have used a different type of angel.”

Dean watched him blow out of the room after Sam, and he sighed miserably. Then he forced his tears back down and a smile onto his face. “A different type of angel. Cas, you’re so right, man,” he murmured, and he pushed himself to stand. After a moment’s dizziness, he worked his way to the garage and started up the Impala. He wondered if he should text Sam, but tossed his phone into the glovebox instead. Tonight, he was going to do whatever the hell he wanted. He was going to do what that demon would have done. He was tired of fighting back. If that thing was still in him, he was going to show it what it was to be Dean Winchester out on the town. Screw karaoke.

He cranked the stereo on AC/DC, and tried to ignore the irony behind “Back in Black.”

***

In his defense, Dean had not thrown the first punch. He had been all too happy to return the favor, but he had not started it. When the guy had moved on him, he had grinned to himself, and winked. It was probably the wink that had done it.

The bar stool had crashed down on his back, and he had crumpled to the ground for a full two seconds. Then he had begun laughing, in a way that made every other person in the room back away quickly, except for the enormous guy staring down at him with a shattered piece of furniture in his hands. He stood and dusted himself off, then turned back to the man with that grin. “Too bad,” he smirked. “Should have hit me harder.” He had winked, and the man had thrown his fist into Dean’s jaw.

He knew he would feel all this in the morning, but damn, it felt good to be alive tonight. He had eaten two burgers with extra onions, feeling his sore stomach stretch painfully, and washed it all down with Cuervo. It was on his sixth shot in a half hour that he had pissed off the largest, most volatile man he could find in the bar. He had forgotten what he had done, but the stool to the back was a friendly warning to knock it off. The guy apparently had no sense of humor. He was reminded briefly of poor Tiny back at the prison, but he shook it off. He had promised himself no memories tonight.

By the time he had thrown the man across the pool table, he could feel his Mark surging with pleasure. He had stopped to give a huge, toothy grin to a woman in a short skirt at the bar, and the man had taken the opportunity to leap onto him.

Dean had not hurt the man badly, and he had gotten out before the sirens had reached the bar. The Impala’s tires tore up the road as he laughed at the adrenaline coursing through him. The next stop was the strip club down by the interstate. The angels there were not nearly so bossy as the one he had left back home. The bouncer had looked at his cut lip and bruising eye and ripped jeans, but Dean had just grinned and shrugged. “Been a long night, buddy. Just here to relax.” The man had looked like he wanted to warn him of something, but waved him in. They obviously did not pay the guy enough.

The dancers were not sure what to make of him, until he let his money drop freely. He had scored over two hundred dollars at the first bar he had hit, and he did not plan to bring home any of it. Suddenly, the ladies were willing to forgive his lack of respect for the dress code and the way one of his eyes did not open all the way. The bouncer relaxed when it became obvious that Dean was there to watch and not touch. He paid for lap dances, but never with the same girl twice, and when they whispered suggestions in his ears, he waved them off.

At his fourth stop, he picked up a woman who did not mind getting her knees dirty in the parking lot shadows out back. It was sketchy, even for him, but he did not care. Why should he? He was part demon. He had then driven her home and made sure she got into her apartment safely. He was only part demon after all.

By this point, he had sobered enough to feel his head and muscles ache. He stopped the car at one point, and stood gulping in cool air, to keep from throwing up in his Baby. Demon or not, he would not forgive himself for that in the morning. His neglected stomach had angrily resented being filled with grease and tequila, and it took nearly twenty minutes of concentrating on his breathing for him to feel safe getting back into the car. Taking the side streets to their secret lair only churned up his stomach more.

When he finally fell into the bunker, he collapsed onto the couch heavily. The tears came hard and fast, shocking him badly. Sobs wracked his body, leaving him with no strength remaining.

He knew Castiel was there. Part of him would have felt abandoned if he weren’t. So it did not surprise him at all when the storm had finally passed to feel Castiel’s strong arms lift him up in the same way Sam’s had earlier, and lead him to his bedroom. When he sat on the bed, Castiel pulled off his boots without a word, and set them neatly in their place by the wall. He had not let someone do that for him since he was injured during a hunt with his father. But it was Castiel, and somehow that made it all right.

“Thank you,” he murmured, nearly without vocalizing.

The angel nodded, and turned toward the door. It seemed he had no intention of speaking to Dean.

“Cas?”

“Yes,” he answered gruffly.

“You and Sammy okay?”

“I think so.”

Dean took a breath. “I’m glad.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“‘Night, Cas.”

***

Sam felt Castiel slip into the dark room, and he made space for him on the small bed. The angel lay down beside him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and sighed heavily.

“He asleep?”

“He will be.”

“Cas? Can I touch your wings?” Sam muttered as he fell back to sleep. The next sound from him was a soft snore.

Castiel smiled at him lovingly. If Dean made his head ache, it was nothing compared to what Sam did to his heart. He turned onto his stomach, lowering his face into his folded arms, and let his wings expand, let one fall like a blanket onto Sam. The other slipped lazily onto the floor. If Balthazar had ever seen him like this, he would have cracked a vessel’s rib laughing. But Balthazar had never been in love, not like this. Even Balthazar, the armorer who had relished human pleasures like none but an archangel, had never known what it was like to feel completely safe in the presence of another being. He had seen Balthazar’s wings, and they betrayed his carefree exterior. Balthazar’s wings had remained drawn up in a soldier’s stoicism. A human might see his face and think the angel was completely at ease. Perhaps another angel who did not know him so well might have thought the same. But Castiel had taken a single glance, and knew Balthazar was still on his guard. Even Gabriel’s wings had always been full of tension. Under his grin, Castiel had seen the anxiety in the way his brother held his feathers taut, as if he might need to burst into flight at any moment. To his knowledge, Castiel himself was the only angel who had ever learned to relax completely in the presence of another living being.

It was supposed to be shameful to allow his wings to show emotion, or to reveal his complete trust. He was supposed to keep them steady even in the most extreme circumstances. As a point of pride, Michael’s wings barely fluttered under the most fearsome wrath. Even Raphael had complete control over his wings, until the moment he had realized Castiel had the upper hand. At that delicious moment, he had watched as Raphael’s wings rippled in fear, and it was the most powerful he had ever felt before.

Cats revealed their bellies only to those they trusted most. When they felt truly safe, they rolled onto their backs and exposed their soft underside. Not only was it quite taboo to relax one’s wings, it left them vulnerable. Castiel had heard once that many Asian human cultures felt the same way about smiling, as though it compromised something valuable. At least, that was how he had understood it.

So when he draped his wings haphazardly across Sam and onto the floor, it was not without a shiver of rebelliousness. Eons of attempting to keep his emotions in check, to not reveal his unacceptable sentiment, had been upended when he had taken Sam’s affliction on himself in that hospital so long ago. The paroxysm of repressed passions had nearly killed him. Now he had no desire to go back to his constant struggle for detachment.

Especially not after seeing tough Sam Winchester burrow into his feathers in his sleep.

Castiel did not move for hours. He knew Sam was comforted by his presence, and he loathed the nightmares that haunted the man. But angels were not meant to lie still, and around four thirty, he could not do it any longer. He raised his head from his arms, and slowly, gently pulled his wings back to him. They were stiff from disuse, and he nearly laughed. Cramped. Sam had recently asked if his wings ever got cramped, and he had said they did not. He would have to amend his statement once the hunter awoke.

He slipped out of the room after a moment spared staring down at his human. The man lay in peace, his hair cutting through his face, and he did not move when Castiel brushed it aside.

Dean was already awake and cooking. Castiel frowned at him. “Dean, I don’t understand. I put you to bed only two hours ago.”

The grin the hunter flashed at him was brilliant. “And the sun will be up in two more! Time to get cracking!” he barked as he tossed eggs into a frying pan.

“Was that a play on words?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but the smile remained. “Maybe. So, you’re coming out of my kid brother’s bedroom now.”

Castiel perched on a stool usually occupied by a stack of books, and watched Dean with a blend of amusement and concern. “Yes. He’s asleep.”

“I bet he is.”

The angel frowned. “It is, as you said, two hours before sunrise. Most humans remain asleep at least until then if left alone.”

Dean snickered at Castiel defending Sam’s unconsciousness, but went back to whipping eggs without any more teasing, which he knew the angel would not get anyway.

“Why are you awake, Dean?”

The rhythm of Dean’s hands faltered, but only for a moment. He did not look at Castiel as he spoke. “I feel good, Cas. I let it all hang out last night, and I guess it’s what I needed.”

“You did not seem to feel better when you came home.”

The hunter licked his lips, and moved his attention to the bacon. “Yeah. Well, sometimes, Cas, humans gotta get all the bad stuff out before anything good can come of it. You know. Like with the Leviathans, Emmanuel.”

Castiel’s breath came out as a sigh. “You seem determined to bring up the past this week. Your brother too. He asked me if I still considered him an abomination.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to him in alarm. “Jesus, what did you say?”

“Of course not. I understand him better than I used to. Humans are permitted to change their mind at times. Angels can learn and correct their opinions as well. That is, some of us can.”

“Okay. Good.”

Castiel watched him move around his kitchen. He wondered if perhaps he should not broach the subject, but his curiosity compelled him. “So, Dean, your brother is sleeping. I don’t need to eat. Are you expecting someone, or will you be enjoying this meal?”

“If I say both, are you going to hit me in the head again?”

“What?”

Dean shook his head. “I’m cooking for me this time. I ate a bunch of grease last night, and nearly puked it all up. So I’m trying something a bit more simple. Scrambled eggs. Dry toast. Bacon.”

“And you’re expecting…?”

“Black eyes. But I’m trying not to think about it.”

Castiel nodded slowly. “Explain to me what you think about when you try to eat.”

“Jesus, we really doing this, Cas? It’s hard enough without the psychoanalysis. And of all the psychos to analyze me, I think you’re the least qualified.”

“I’m trying to understand, Dean. If you’d prefer I go back to hitting you in the head, I’m content to oblige.” A dark eyebrow raised in challenge. “Well?”

“Considering my options.”

He received a blue glare in return for his snark.

“Fine. You want daytime television? Let’s do it.” Dean tossed his wooden spoon onto the counter. “When I try to eat, I feel like I’m feeding the demon.”

“You are the demon, Dean.”

Dean licked his teeth in aggravation. “Thanks, Cas. You’re really helping.”

Castiel sighed. “Dean, I don’t know-“

“I’m not the demon, okay? I mean, I know I am. Of course I am. But, dammit, I can’t be. Not again. I try to believe you guys pulled that out of me, that there’s not something inside waiting to erupt again. But I know better. I feel it. So I feel like every time I eat, I’m feeding it. Like I’m giving in, giving up, and feeding that thing.”

“But, Dean, you know demons don’t need to eat. They do, some of them. But they don’t need to.”

“Yeah, Cas, I know. Of the two of us, I definitely know. But when I sleep, I’m scared I’m going to wake up with black eyes, and when I eat…it’s like I’m losing the battle.”

The angel nodded, and watched Dean’s shaking hands transfer the meal onto a plate. The green eyes stared at the food for several beats, then he looked at Castiel as if he were expecting something. “Dean, it’s all right. Truly. Any food you take in is metabolized by you, the human. For the moment, you have nothing to worry about from the Mark. I have seen nothing to indicate that it could just take you over, not without the First Blade.”

Dean rolled his eyes again, but then he looked up at his friend with hope. “Think so?”

He shrugged. It was as close to the truth as he cared to get. After all, no one before Cain had worn the Mark, nor anyone after other than Dean. For all Castiel knew, the logic was perfectly sound. “You died with the Blade in your hand. And you were awaken from death when Crowley placed it back in your hand, you said. I can only assume that without it, you are safe. Safe enough.”

The hunter nodded, and grabbed his plate of food, stalking toward the table. “Good. Then I’m eating this.”

Castiel joined him in the living area, watching as Dean eyed his food as if daring it to betray him. The first bite of bacon caused a wince, at once a twinge of relief and of fear. The angel smiled tightly. “I’ve been assured that most food does not bite back, Dean,” he gently nudged.

“Yeah.” He took a bite of his eggs, and then sat back in exhaustion. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have the Biggerson’s turducken sandwich.”

“I order only coffees when we go out, Dean.”

“Yeah, lucky you.” The green gaze remained fixed on the food before him.

Castiel could hear the aching stomach growl.

Apparently, so did the man. “If I just don’t eat, it doesn’t get so angry with me. It’s when I eat a bite or two, and stop there, or when I eat junk and wash it down with Cuervo, that it gets really pissed.”

“So eat a few more bites, and don’t wash it down with anything.”

Dean laughed quietly. “You make it sound as easy as it is obvious.” He picked at his toast. “Okay. I can eat if you can talk. Tell me how Sammy’s doing. And Heaven. You been back?”

“I have not.” Castiel sat back in his chair wearily. “There’s a particular angel I need to speak to, and I have not yet…formulated my communication strategy.”

A soft snort came from his friend, who popped dry toast into his mouth. “Okay. That sounds eerily familiar. Did you piss somebody off again?”

“I…hope not. It is a bit early to tell.”

“Ominous.”

Castiel shook his head then. “It is not an enemy. It is a friend. And I don’t even know if she wants to see me. My time with Sam…It isn’t what she is going to want to hear.”

Realization came over Dean’s face, and he nodded very slowly, his eyebrows straining upward. “Okay. So a lady angel.”

“Gender is practically irrelevant-“

“A lady angel,” Dean said again. “And she’s into you.”

Castiel sighed. “After spending time in human form, I believe she became…confused.”

“Okay. You told Sam he’s got competition?”

“Of course not. She is a strong and brilliant beauty, Dean, and under other circumstances, maybe as little as a century ago, I might have…welcomed her company. But since knowing your brother, I cannot…I have nothing to give which does not belong to your brother.”

Dean smiled, breathing in through his nose. The emotion on his face was difficult to read, and Castiel might identify it as pride. “So you and Sam, this is the end game?”

“I hope not. Dean, we have encountered quite a few end games, including one just last week. All three of us were quite close to death.”

“Dude, I saw your wings burn out. You were closer than either of us.”

The angel conceded the point. “I suppose one of us was beyond close. I was dead before your brother pulled me back.”

“He’ll have to teach me that trick. You’re the most death-prone angel we’ve met so far.”

Blue eyes turned on him, and a smile brushed across the angel’s face. “I prefer to think of it differently, Dean. I am the most life-prone angel you’ve met. There is something to be said for having been brought back from nothing more times than I ever deserved. And to be remade by Sam himself…”

“Sam himself,” Dean laughed. “Like he’s a freaking rock star.”

“Sam is human. And I don’t know if you understand what he did for me.”

The man nibbled at his toast. “Yeah. He brought you back. It’s what we do, man. I bring him back, he brings me back, you think we’re just going to let your wings buzz out permanently? Scariest freaking thing, by the way. Never want to see you do that again.”

“Sam didn’t just bring me back. He used his own body as a conduit for magical energy. He drained Malphas of his power, fed it through his own body to filter it, and remade me of pure light. Pure energy. And all that darkness he siphoned off of Malphas, he took on himself. It should have destroyed him. He had no way of knowing it would not destroy him.”

“Yeah. And as I understand it? Your original Grace, painted all over his pet rock, sucked up all that crap out of him, so I call you even.”

Castiel thought he should probably be irritated at Dean’s irreverence for the Stone of Qafben, but he found that he did not mind. Because it was Dean, he never truly minded the blasphemy. “We’ll never be even, Dean. He did far more than put me back together. He remade me, better than I was before.”

This caught Dean’s attention. “Yeah? How you mean?”

“I won’t be needing new Grace, Dean, not anymore. It’s taken me a few days to work it out, but something truly miraculous happened when Sam did what he did. I’m no longer relying on my sister’s stolen Grace, nor even my own original Grace. Sam built for me something entirely new, something which should last me…as long as I need it to.”

Dean’s bacon stopped partway to his mouth. “Wait. So you ain’t sick anymore?”

“If I’m right, I should never be sick again. Assuming an archangel or a new god doesn’t throw me down again.”

“Holy shit. Does Sam even know?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t wanted to tell him. Did not even really plan to tell you, except that talking seemed to help you finish your meal.”

Dean glanced down at his plate to find that he had even gone so far as to scrape the plate with his toast. All that remained was a bite of bacon left in his fingers. He smiled, strangely proud of himself, and then looked back up. “So, why? Why wouldn’t you tell him the minute you figured it out?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Castiel admitted. “At first, I didn’t want to say something which might turn out to be untrue. But now I’ve become convinced; yet somehow I still prefer not to mention it.” 

The human shrugged. “Okay. I guess that’s your business. Weird though, since you know Sam’s been worried about you.”

Castiel cringed at the words. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just…Dean you told me not a full week ago that part of loving Sam was growing old with him. I suppose I wanted to…leave that possibility…that illusion…”

His friend startled him by grabbing his hand in a firm grip. “Cas, stop right there.” He let go of the angel’s hand, but the warmth remained. “First of all? Growing old is a relative term. For a hunter, Sam’s already old. Only the truly smart ones like Bobby and Sammy, or the damn lucky ones like me and Rufus, ever reach middle age. Okay? So I’ll never say this again, and I’ll never even think it again, but if Sam keeps up this life, he ain’t getting old. The luck’s going to run out for me, and even the smarts are going to backfire on Sammy one day. And you? Cas, you been thrown back into the frying pan so many times, I think you’re a freaking cat. You gotta be damn close to your ninth life, okay? So old is relative. And second? It probably ain’t all it’s cracked up to be either. So just love the shit out of my little brother while you’re both still alive, and stop worrying about all the things you’re not. The things you are, Cas? They’re enough.”

The breath Castiel took in was shuddered and sick with emotion. He could not speak.

“Anyway, when I say end game, I don’t mean death. I mean…you’re in it for the long haul. And you obviously are.”

The angel nodded silently.

“Good. That’s good.” Dean picked up his plate, and headed for the kitchen, humming Stairway to himself.

Castiel listened to the domestic sounds of Dean washing dishes, and if he strained a bit, he could even hear Sam snoring behind closed doors. He smiled to himself. This was not the life any of the three of them had ever expected, but it was strangely comfortable.

Dean’s words had comforted him in a very basic way. He understood, probably in a way most couldn’t, how much Dean’s approval would always mean to Sam. No matter that Castiel was stronger, older, more powerful. Dean was a force of nature like none other. Castiel sought Dean’s affirmation like he had never sought from a brother before. He revealed things to Dean as he would never reveal them to any of his siblings, whom he had loved dearly his whole life, and yet he was more fearful of disappointing this man than of Lucifer’s glare or Gabriel’s smirk. If Dean saw Castiel down to his core, which the angel was certain he did, and he did not resent his love for Sam, the most important being in Dean’s universe, it must be all right. Everything was all right.

***

Sam awoke alone, and stretched his limbs in a way he had not wanted to do all night. Even his subconscious had tried to leave room for Castiel in the bed. It had been a very long time since Sam had awoken without worry for the person he expected to be next to him. Even Amelia, he had been convinced would be gone for good every morning he opened his eyes, and when she wasn’t he became even more suspicious.

He would never say so to another living being, but he had tested Amelia at every opportunity, both as an man filled with insecurities and a hunter alert to manipulations. He had bought silver flatware as a gift, which had shocked her, and then watched in horrible anxiety as she had used them to eat. When there was no reaction, he had snuck holy water into her orange juice. He had even tested the dog. Riot had put up with all the tricks patiently, as if he knew Sam needed to be absolutely sure about him. When they had discussed names for the mutt, he had suggested “Christo,” then laughed it off nervously. When she had rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, that’s a riot, let’s name the dog after cooking grease,” he had released true laughter. “Not Crisco,” he began, then let it go. “No, you’re right. Riot is far better.”

But for a man who had once awoken to find the woman he had slept with, the woman he was beginning to fall for, snarling into a lycanthrope before his eyes and lunging, it was difficult to let his guard down. There was not a doubt in his mind that Amelia’s husband showing up alive had been a trick of the universe, a smirk from the cosmos to say, “Didn’t have a test for that one, did you, Winchester?” The universe would find a way to slap him in the back of the head and punch him in the throat every time he thought something good was happening to him. So he had stopped thinking that, years ago.

Then there was Castiel. There was no testing necessary. He knew what the guy was. He was just as damaged as either of the brothers he had taken on as friends. He was not a demon, not a monster, not even a true angel. He was just a guy, who had always tried his best, who had failed frequently, and had tried again after every mistake. Just like Sam himself.

So when Castiel was not in bed beside him, he was not worried. “Dude doesn’t even sleep,” he reminded himself aloud. He groaned loudly as he stretched his limbs out. Then he smiled mischievously. “Which might be good someday.” He glanced at his clock. Living underground had taken less getting used to than he had expected. It was no more disorienting than waking up in a different time zone three times a month his whole life.

It was nearly ten o’clock.

For no reason, Sam bolted out of bed. He rushed into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and he started the shower quickly. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and found it pulled into a frown. Why was he hurrying? There was nothing he was expected to do, nowhere he had to be. He wanted to call Jody Mills and Garth to check on them, but that could wait until afternoon at least. So what was the urgency? It took a moment to slow his heart rate. No rush. No job. No hunt. No surly big brother. No angry father. He was past thirty. It was time he chose how much sleep his body needed.

When the warm water hit his back, he smiled, and let himself relax. The bunker was a beautiful thing. No more navy showers for him. There was plenty of warm water. He didn’t even really mind that the shower was meant for someone at least two inches shorter than he. After his time as a handyman, he knew that if he really wanted to, he could easily add an extender to the head of the shower. He had never spent so many consecutive nights at the bunker before, not when he was truly himself. Perhaps he would venture out to a hardware store to see what he could find.

Sam had always been a shower man. It was hard not to be while he and his brother had lived in each other’s pockets for their whole lives. Even at college, there were roommates. So the shower had always been his sanctuary. This morning, though, after he had washed, he looked down at his own calloused hands, and stared at them at length, letting the water trail down his body and drip from his hair. His hands were rough and scarred. Like Dean, the moment he got out of Hell, he had proceeded to scar himself up again, and it had been many years since the two of them were clean in that way.

He tried to take care of his hands as well as he could. Broken fingers mean unpulled triggers, Dean had joked once when they were kids. Sam had been considering becoming a goalie for the soccer team at…well, wherever they had been at the time. He was fast enough, and the coach had been truly impressed with his total discipline and reflexes. But Dean had talked him out of it. “Look, Sammy. You can still shoot with a broken ankle. You can still use your knife. And if you need to? You can still retreat. Broken hands, though, your best bet is always to run. I’m just saying. Protect your hands when you can.” Not that Dean had succeeded in doing so himself. It had been one of the first things Dean had taken note of after Castiel had ripped him out of the fires. No more fingers at odd angles from all the breaks. It had not lasted long, but it was nice while it did.

Sam continued to stare at his hands. The backs of them were lined with light traces of blade cuts, burns, and even a bite he had to struggle to remember. The fingernail which had not grown back exactly the same, but at least was there. He turned them to examine the rest. Knife cuts, the old Lucifer scar on the palm as he remembered it, and callouses. His prints had mostly been burned off of his left hand, which he supposed was just as well.

But the hands functioned, pretty or not, and he shook his head to clear the fog. He was a mess this morning. Sleeping till ten, panicking, then standing in the shower staring at his hands when he had already finished washing and could have been finished with the rest of his morning ritual by now. But he found that he just didn’t feel like it. He pushed back his hair into the water again, and then turned the water off and grabbed his towel.

As soon as the water was off, he could hear the Metallica blaring out in the living area of the bunker. Sam smiled to himself. “Yup. Definitely 10:01am,” he laughed quietly. With the towel about his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom, leaving the door open to allow the air to circulate.

He choked in his breath at the sight of Castiel, wings in all their glory hanging by his sides. “Jesus!”

Castiel turned calmly to look at him. “Good morning, Sam.” The smile he gave his friend was genuine and completely ignorant of the bad scare he had just inflicted on him. “Did you sleep well?”

Sam willed his heart rate to normalize. “Jesus,” he swore again. “Uh, yes. Yeah, I slept really well, actually. And late.”

The angel nodded. “Dean and I were pleased about that. But when it came to a minute past ten o’clock, he insisted on turning on his music. He said it was something of a…a sibling thing?”

The hunter laughed. “Uh, sort of. Dean’s one of those really annoying people who is both a night owl and an early bird. He just doesn’t need as much solid sleep as some people, and he’s trained himself to need even less over the years. So after a particularly rough hunt once when we were kids, Dad and I nearly killed him when we woke up to him rocking out to Ozzie. We established then, to save Dean from a bloody fratricide, that he was allowed to play whatever he wanted, as loud as he wanted, once it was 10:01 on the digital. So every time there was no job to wake up for, or someplace we gotta be, Dad and I could sleep in peace till ten if we wanted to, and after ten, all bets were off. Honestly, it was so rare that we didn’t have to be up before dawn, or we just got up out of habit, that Dean chomping at the bit to get moving was not usually a problem. I’m just glad I woke up a few minutes before Enter Sandman began today.”

Castiel looked as though he had only understood a fraction of what Sam had just said, but he smiled anyway. “Dean is nothing if not considerate,” he smirked.

Sam chuckled to himself. It never failed to amuse him when Castiel was busting Dean’s balls for something. “Okay, I’m going to get dressed.”

There was a beat of silence before Castiel took a breath. “And you’d like privacy. I’ll wait for you outside.”

The smile remained after the door had closed behind his angel. He loved that stupid creature. Loved him more than he could possibly ever tell him. And he had absolutely no idea what to do with him.

It would be fun to figure it out.

***

Dean felt certain he would never again be able to hear Back in Black without a twinge in his chest. But Back in the Saddle was hitting home in a way that it hadn’t in years. The last time he had felt this good while listening to it, he had just slipped out of Purgatory, poured Benny back into his corpse, and was off to find his brother. A small part of him, just as it did then, knew he was fooling himself. Just like looking for Sam after Purgatory, he knew now that he had the Mark, nothing could ever actually be like it was before. But for just today, he was going to scream with Steven Tyler, and pretend like he was calling all the shots. Not the demon. Him. The real him.

By the time Sam stepped out of his bedroom with his hair still wet, Dean was finished cleaning the kitchen which did not need it, and had moved on to cleaning the living area which did not need it, all while shrieking to Pantera. His brother was staring at him with amusement on his face, so he winked at him, and threw back his head to show off his most legendary air guitar as Sweet Child O’ Mine began flooding the bunker.

Sam laughed at his good mood. “All right, Slash,” he shouted. “Turn it down, would ya?”

Dean pretended not to hear.

“Turn it down or I’m going to switch to Skynyrd or something!”

For this, he received a glower, and Dean reluctantly lowered the volume on the speakers. “You do, and I’ll give you three steps toward the door.”

“Dude, what do you have against Skynyrd anyway?” Sam cackled.

Dean licked at his teeth. “I don’t know. They’re fine. Not Foster the People or anything. Just…not the Stones!”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure Skynyrd was an inspiration for this song. When Ax wrote it, I’m pretty sure I read once-“

The older man threw his hands over his ears. “La la la, Sammy! Who cares what Axl wrote? It’s Stradlin and Slash I’m talking about! Skynyrd ain’t got nothing on that!”

“Freebird is like the most requested song in the history of guitar. And I happen to know you love it.”

“Shut up! You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

Silent in the corner until now, Castiel finally sighed. “If only Metatron had given me musical information instead of literary.”

Both brothers turned to him as if they had forgotten he was there. “Cas,” Dean called over the riffs, his tone full of mock sincerity, “I’ll try, but I think you missed a significant developmental step when you were a kid. As apparently did Sam.”

Sam blinked at the angel, ignoring Dean’s remark. “Dude, were you ever a kid?”

Castiel seemed surprised to find the conversation had moved onto him. “Uh. Not in the way…What are we talking about?”

As tended to happen when the brothers were barbing one another, they included Castiel as something of a prop. “See, Cas, you’re hearing Dean on a Wednesday. By Friday, he’ll be in love with Skynyrd again and start telling me he’s a simple man.”

“I am a simple man, Sammy!” Dean confirmed. “A simple man who appreciates simple things, like Slash getting his rocks off in Welcome to the Jungle. Cas, listen. You’ve come to the right place.”

The angel sighed heavily. “Dean, you aren’t going to attempt to educate me, are you?” he asked with dread bordering on misery.

Dean’s mouth opened, but Sam hurried to the rescue. “Cas, you have a lot of fine qualities. Among them is the ability to put up with our music. You don’t need to know who Gene Simmons or Robert Plant is in order to fit in around here.”

The older Winchester looked shocked. “The hell he doesn’t!” he shouted, and dove for the MP3 player attached to the speakers. When a new song flared to life, he whirled on Castiel. “This? This, Cas! This is-“

“Immigrant Song,” Castiel finished for him.

Sam’s mouth fell open, and Dean’s snapped shut, as they stared at the angel.

“First played at Reykjavik.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “Uh. Uh, no, it was in England. At Bath-“

Castiel stood firm. “No. It was first performed in Iceland. For a group of human students. I was among them.”

Sam glanced at Dean in alarm, as if he were concerned the man might fall.

“Wait.” Dean closed his eyes, put his hand on his hip and pointed at Castiel sharply. “You were there when Plant first played Immigrant Song.”

Castiel licked his lips, and his eyes turned to Sam in question. “Yes?” he said softly. “It was not only Robert Plant. There were other musicians there with him.”

Dean exploded at this point. “Yeah!” he shouted. “They’re called Led Zeppelin! Jesus flipping Christ, Cas, how has this never come up in conversation before? You saw Zeppelin the first time they played Immigrant Song!”

“Sam?” Castiel said fearfully.

“I mean, I’d start every conversation that way! Hi, I’m Dean effing Winchester, and I saw Zeppelin the first time they played Immigrant Song! Sorry to hear about your family being ravaged by vamps, but did you hear me when I said I saw Zeppelin the first time they played Immigrant Song?”

Sam snorted then, and his chin fell to his chest. His hair covered his eyes while he laughed, then he took a breath, and put his hand on Castiel’s arm. “Cas, you should tell more stories, okay?”

“Apparently my stories make Dean angry,” he said quietly, as if he were not quite sure what had just transpired in the room.

“Angry? No. Jealous, absolutely,” Sam laughed. “I mean, he wasn’t even born yet. What was that? ’69? ’70?”

The angel shrugged, still frowning. “Perhaps. I paid less attention to dates than I do now.”

“Why were you even there?” Dean shrieked.

“I like Iceland,” he said simply.

Dean’s hands flew into the air. “Oh, he likes Iceland.”

“We were not walking among humans, Dean, not at the time. Not as we do now. Certainly not as we do now. But some of us were meant to watch at times. That was my mission during those years. Just to watch, to feel the energy on Earth from various points on its surface. I have been partial to the areas of the world peopled by Slavs. I feel especially drawn to the various Slavic cultures, and find them fascinating to watch. But I have traveled extensively. There was meant to be a lovely volcanic eruption that year in Iceland, and I was interested in watching it first-hand. But it was postponed, for reasons I won’t go into. In any case, I sought out entertainment of a more human variety, and was alerted to a concert being held at a university. Human art is something I have never truly understood, but can appreciate nonetheless. The show was quite…loud. Loud but good. I believe the song was meant to serve as an interpretation of historic Viking migration, though the artistic rendition made it difficult for me to tell if it was accurate.”

Sam turned on Dean. “Did you know Cas once beat up Thor? Like, the real Thor?”

Dean was shaking his head. “I think I should sit down.”

They spent the next several hours laughing and telling stories. Dean eventually moved the conversation to the kitchen, where Castiel and Sam perched on the stools and watched him cook lunch for them, but the chatter never dissolved. While he set out a plate piled high with bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches and one full of nachos, which he swore went together perfectly, he gestured to his friends to join him at the table, which they did.

“Want one, Castiel?” Sam asked politely.

“Uh no. Thank you, Sam.”

“Okay, this song?” Sam continued. “This one is a full-on stalker song.”

Dean stopped chewing to listen. “Dude, it’s Sting. If anyone were stalking you, wouldn’t you want it to be Sting, Summers and Copeland?”

“Dean, we’ve been stalked by the police. Many, many times. The idea of them watching every breath I take is a little creepy. Even Sting thinks it’s a creepy song.”

“All of Sting’s songs are creepy. Doesn’t mean they aren’t art.”

“I never said…”

Castiel’s blue eyes sparked, and it was clear he was no longer listening to the conversation.

Dean watched him, knowing that his peaceful day of hanging out with his brothers, pretending they were the only people in the world, was about to screech to a halt. He sighed, and took another bite. “What is it, Cas?” he said around his sandwich. “You picking up something other than Sting on your broadcast?”

Sam whipped around to face Castiel, his eyes full of shock. “Cas? You…you back to hearing angel radio? I thought…”

Dean put his finger up, almost to his lip to silently shush his brother. Castiel face was pulled into a tight frown, and that was not a good sign.

At last, the angel nodded. “Yes, Dean.”

“I thought you couldn’t hear that stuff in the bunker.”

“I generally cannot. It was sent directly to me, from the one other angel who knows where the bunker is.”

“Gadreel’s dead. You said…”

Dean stopped when he saw Sam’s eyes drop down to his food. “Hannah.” It was a statement, not a guess.

“Hannah,” Castiel confirmed. He stood and brushed his palms over his coat. “I’m needed. Upstairs,” he added unnecessarily. His lips were pressed tightly together, and Dean could see his eyes narrowing into a cringe. “I will be back shortly. Is there anything you require?”

“Pick me up a halo, will you?” Dean called. “It’ll look real good with my Mark.”

Castiel glared at him, then turned to leave the room.   Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. Dean watched him. His kid brother looked as if he had just been slapped, or as if he needed to be.

When the door had closed behind Castiel, Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Guy can sure make an entrance, but his exits always kind of suck.”

The younger man frowned down at his sandwich, then put it on his plate. “Yeah. Well, this is the most time he’s spent in one place since we’ve known him. He was probably itching to leave as much as you are.”

Dean sat back. “What’s that mean?”

Sam shrugged moodily. “Look, I’m ready to get back to work too. But you, you’re probably climbing the walls.”

He mirrored the shrug, and glanced at his plate. He had eaten nearly half a sandwich while distracted by his brothers and music. If Castiel had not taken off like an angel out of Hell, he might have actually eaten the whole thing. “Football?”

“Dean, it’s Wednesday.”

“Right.” He sighed. “Yeah, okay. I’m wanting to get back in the game. Bad. Real bad. That thing I saw with the drama teacher giving you any chills?”

Sam wrinkled his nose a bit. “There’s not really much there.”

“I know, but…Could be fairies?”

“Seriously? You think this is a fairy abduction?”

“Could be.” Dean hated it when Sam looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Right. Because we’ve seen so much of that over the years.”

Green eyes narrowed sharply. “Look, as the one who was abducted by the last group of them we did come across, I think I have a right to be a bit more wary.”

“Yeah, you juiced one in the microwave, Dean.”

His hands flew up. “Because you were so helpful!” he shouted. “You were too busy screwing the locals to help me with the case!”

The man’s face pulled tightly into a classic kid brother sneer. “Dude, I didn’t have a soul. Okay? You want to hear it again? Cas fished me out of the cage without my soul.”

Dean snickered, snorted, then finally let loose a cackle. “Jesus, you’re such a little emo bitch. You’re like, Dean, I went around without a soul one time, and you’ll never let me forget about it-God!” he whined in a mocking tone.

Sam tried not to smile, but failed utterly. He dropped his chin, then lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s, resulting in both of them laughing.

“Well, at least Cas managed to raise you with your libido intact. One day we’re going to find out you have a whole litter of puppies scattered across the country from that one year you got more tail than I did.”

“I used condoms. I was soulless, not brainless.”

“You were kind of a cougar magnet, even then, though, weren’t you? A younger chick here and there, but really, what is it with you and the older ladies?”

Sam cringed. “Yeah, well, some of it is still foggy. I mean, I remember it all, I do, but details…Apparently I paid cash sometimes.”

Dean made a face. “Ew.”

“Whatever!” his brother shot back defensively. “How is that so different from you hitting strip clubs?”

“I went last night,” Dean admitted, not even bothering with his usual explanation of the enormous difference between paying for sex and paying for sexy.

Sam looked surprised. He had been halfway out of his seat, but he sank back down. “You did? Where?”

“Outside Lebanon. Not far. Cas and me…We kind of had a fight.”

“Should I be jealous?” Sam teased gently.

Dean could hear him testing the waters, determining if his big brother was really as fine with the relationship that was developing between him and Castiel as he said. Was it okay to joke about it, be casual about it, or was Dean going to need to pretend nothing was going on in order to be comfortable. He smiled at Sam softly. “No. He’s all yours, man. But he’s a mother hen. And he was pecking at me about…you know…stuff.”

“Like you falling down the stairs because you haven’t eaten in days?”

The green eyes closed now. “Jesus, you both knew I wasn’t eating?”

“How could we not know? It’s you, Dean. You might as well not be breathing!”

He shrugged in capitulation. “Anyway, he got pissed at me, told me I was being a child and he was done parenting. Some shit like that. So I took off for town. Ate. Drank. Even smoked a little. Got a couple lap dances, a curbside blow from some chick who didn’t even care that I had a name, let alone a phone number. Had an awesome brawl. Played some pool. I don’t know. I almost threw up in the Impala.”

Sam stared at him. “You almost threw up in the Impala.”

Obviously, that was the most shocking part of the summarization of Dean’s night. “Yeah. I didn’t. Just almost did.”

“Okay.”

“And Cas threw me in bed when I got back.”

Sam’s eyes lowered again. “Okay,” he said again. Then he tried to smile. “Again, should I be worried? Guy hasn’t even thrown me in bed yet.”

Dean threw his hand up, about to complain about too much information, then he stopped. “What? He hasn’t? I thought you two were…Jesus, are we doing this? Okay, we are. We are. All right. I’ve been a shitty big brother for the last thirty-whatever years. I can do this now.” He sighed dramatically, then reached out to grasp his brother’s hands, and looked into his eyes with pure empathy on his face. “Sam, tell me about your gay sex life.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Seriously. What’s going on with you two?” Dean sat back and looked serious for once. He found that as much as he did not want details, he really did want to know what was going on between his brother and his best friend. He had given it his blessing, after all. He felt as though he were invested.

“Seriously, you’re a dick,” Sam shot back. But he sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Things are good, I guess. Just…” 

“Awkward?”

“How’d you know?” Sam snickered sarcastically.

“Because it’s you. And Cas. But I thought…”

Another shrug. “He’s not human, Dean. Not even remotely. You know I can see his wings?”

Dean startled. “What? Still? I thought that was like some freak psychic thing, just for a minute and that was it.”

“No. I see them all the time now. They’re there, and they’re incredible, but they’re this constant reminder that he’s so completely different.”

The green gaze narrowed. “Are we talking about the gay sex thing yet?”

“Dean-“

“I’m being serious, okay? It’s part of what you’re worried about. I know it is, so don’t act like it isn’t.”

“You don’t know anything about-“

“Wedge Antilles.” Sam went silent, and Dean raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ever tell me I don’t know anything about you. So you’re worried about what? He won’t know which end to use?”

Sam popped to his feet, knocking his chair to the ground. “Okay, we’re done here!” he said a bit too shrilly.

Dean sighed, and stood too, glancing down at the dishes, but walking after his brother patiently. “Sam. You’re thinking of screwing this up, and I’m not going to let you.” When Sam turned to protest, he grabbed his shoulder. “Sammy! Stop. Just stop, okay? How many chances do you think somebody gets, whether they’re human or angel? You’ve had some experience in love, and every one of them ended with buckets of suck. This time you have a shot at something that might last more than a few days. It’s already lasted longer than most of your interspecies relationships. And if you consider that you’ve actually been a middle school girl for him for years, that makes it the longest you’ve gone without killing any non-human hookup of yours, even Ruby.”

“You are so not helping.”

“I’ll get to that. Patience, Grasshopper.”


	2. Fight or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean realize that when they don't take a job for too long, they tend to have to deal with things. 
> 
> Feeeelings! (says Crowley)
> 
> Castiel gets recalled to Heaven, and explains to Hannah why he is staying on Earth.
> 
> To recover from all the feelings, they imbibe copious amounts of alcohol. Dean is determined to be both a good big brother and a good wingman for Cas.

Sam's eyes were full of exhaustion. Dean had memories of lifting his kid brother and carrying him to the bed in motels when Sam had passed out on the floor watching Thundercats cartoons. Dean had often slept on the couch, if they had one, or on the floor by the door when they didn't. It was easier than sharing a bed with his squirmy brother, and it allowed him to guard the room. He had thought of himself as the first line of defense for his father and brother ever since that calamitous night that striga had gotten to Sam in the bed, and he had hesitated to shoot. If John had not come in when he had...Ever since then, Dean had lay himself between the door and his brother's bed. He had gone to sleep each night knowing that if something came for them, it was his responsibility to keep it from getting past him, and at least if he were killed, it would serve as an alarm so that his father would have warning and be alert, to save Sam. When they had gotten older, and it was just the two of them, Dean had almost always slept furthest from the door. This was a conscious decision as well. Dean bedded down with a knife but he was deadly accurate with a gun. If he heard anything, he would have his hands on his gun and time to fire from across the room before anything got to Sammy. Better to have time to aim than to be forced to shoot at point blank range with not even a moment of warning.

When he saw Sam's eyes this way, he wanted to take him to his room and make him sleep and guard him. He supposed he would always feel that way.

But no amount of sleep was going to solve this. He was going to have to dig deeper than that in his big brother bag.

"Sammy," he sighed, "you know I'm not just saying this stuff to screw with you."

"Not that you don't enjoy that too," Sam accused.

"Okay. But really. You have some commitment issues. Let's be honest."

Sam's eyes burst wide. "What? Dean! You're the one who always said we can't have attachments! You're the one who swears by the lone wolf code!"

"I have never called it that."

"Whatever!"

Dean continued. "Sam, the point is this. You never actually had to commit before. Nothing ever lasted long enough."

"Like you know-"

He ground his teeth hard. "I would have been with Lisa and Ben for the long haul, Sam," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "Don't tell me what I don't know about commitment."

Sam did not respond. He knew better than to even breathe regarding Lisa and Ben. It was too sacred, and would always be far too painful.

"Sam, if you want this thing with Castiel to work, you gotta change your mindset. You've been ready to kill and die for him for years, same as me. He don't need somebody to kill and die for him, Sammy. He needs you to live for him now. And that's harder."

Sam shook his head, staring at his hands. "I don't even know what you're talking about, man."

He withstood a twinge of guilt. Sam had never had this chance before, and he would always be somewhat responsible for that. "Sammy, dying for somebody isn't easy. We know it isn't-we've both done it. But living for someone is even harder. That's day to day. Dying, you only give yourself up once. Unless you're us. But you know what I mean. Living is giving yourself up every day. It's putting yourself out there, taking risks every day. It's letting yourself go, giving yourself over and over. It's scarier than dying for somebody you love. A lot scarier."

Finally, Sam's brown head began to nod. "That I do understand. The scary part."

Dean laughed softly.

"I mean, it's Cas, right? I mean...it's Cas!"

Strangely, Dean knew exactly what his brother was saying. "Yeah. But that won't make it easier. It'll just make it worth it."

The smile Sam gave him lit his heart with warmth. "You're really okay with this."

"If you're going to try to make a life with someone, Sammy, it should be someone who knows the real you, and someone who is strong enough to handle everything about your life. Cas is here to stay. If he can make you happy while he's here, of course I'm okay with it."

Sam took a breath then. "Okay," he capitulated. "What do I do?"

His brother grinned. "First, you two need to get out of the bunker. All three of us are going stir-crazy. I can't believe he's only just now flying the coop. Get him out, where he can see how human couples interact. He's never paid any attention to that before. And he's learned most of his information from motel pay-per-view. That could end really poorly really fast."

Sam cringed. "Yeah. Pizza man. Got it."

"Sammy, the guy will do absolutely anything for you. But you're going to have to tell him what you want from him. He's not being a dick. He really doesn't know. You're not great about saying what you need. Your passive aggressive crap isn't going to work with him. It's too subtle."

For this, he received a glower, but then Sam sighed. "Okay. I'll try to talk to him." His smile was back, and rueful. "If I don't want him to leave Earth without acknowledging my presence on his way out, I should probably say so."

Dean sat back, his own mouth pulled into a smirk. "Yeah. Like that. He's not stupid. Give the guy credit; he's smart. But he's not going to know stuff. The personal space thing still confuses him. How's he supposed to know he should notice your new haircut?"

"Screw you."

Dean laughed, and began cleaning the dishes. Sam grabbed his sandwich back sulkily, then chewed on it with a pensive expression while Dean moved into the kitchen.

A pain shot through Dean's head, reminding him of his previous night. He sighed to himself as he washed the dishes. It had felt good at the time. Today, he had been surprised to be spared a black eye, but his muscles ached badly from the brawl, and the Cuervo was haunting his head and stomach. He needed to stick with water and beer for a while.

"You look like shit."

Dean's eyebrow peaked. "Yeah? Must be related, you and me."

Sam laughed quietly. "I don't think so. I look beautiful."

"You look like a tornado hit your hair while you were sleeping last night, and the locals are still assessing the damage hours later."

The taller man ran his hands through his hair reflexively. "Shut up."

"I got in a fight last night. What's your excuse?"

"I slept all night under an angel's wings."

This time, the twinge of pain hit his heart, as he wished his mother could have heard that. "So Cas is turning you into a poet?"

"No. I mean literally."

Dean nodded and put his last dish into the drying rack. "I think you've been doing that for years, and you didn't know it," he said softly.

"When did you know he cared about me? It's only been recently that I thought maybe he was done hating me."

The green eyes stared at him. "He never hated you. He resented some things you did. But, Sammy, the guy has wanted to get his wings on you for years. I knew before he did. Part of why the thing with Death's wall hit me so hard. It showed just how far gone he really was."

"Shoving that angel blade into his back was the hardest thing I think I've ever done."

"I know." Dean sighed again. "Sam, Castiel went to Hell, to the cage, to pull your ass out. When he did that for me, it was under orders. He did it for you because he chose to."

Sam was quiet for a moment, then he smiled in a shaky way that made Dean think he was about to throw up. "Dean? We don't talk like this."

The older man shrugged. "Yeah. Well, we haven't had a job in too long. Apparently it makes us stupid."

"No, it's good. We can go back to being guys tonight. It's nice to be brothers for a while. And...I want to talk about Hell."

Dean swallowed hard. He gave a nervous laugh. "About...about Hell? Like lore, or Crowley, or what?"

"You know what I mean. Hell."

It was one thing they had silently agreed to never bring up again, except in the abstract. But he was not in the habit of denying Sam anything he obviously needed. He laughed again, anxiety filling his stomach. "Okay. We're going to need some drinks for this. Johnny Walker Blue?"

"Rufus would be proud."

Dean's hands shook a bit as he set out the tumblers on the long table. Sam pretended not to notice. Then he poured three fingers into each. "You going to make me go first, aren't you?"

"You were there first."

"What do you want to know?"

Sam shook his head, as if Dean had missed the point. "No," he murmured. "Tell me."

Dean sighed, swallowed his entire glass of Blue, and nodded.

***

Hannah was leaning over a sister’s shoulders and pointing at a tablet on the desk. When Castiel walked in, she raised her eyes to acknowledge him, then continued talking to the subordinate. Castiel watched her work, and felt pride swell in him. Hannah was a leader. He saw the way she placed her hand gently on their sister’s arm before stepping away. It was a human gesture, but it was clearly appreciated, and it displayed warmth in a way Hannah had only ever done with her eyes in the past. It surprised Castiel. One glance at her wings told him she was still ever the soldier, ever on guard and ready, but something about her had softened.

He found himself staring at the way her alulae curved subtly, and shook his head to concentrate on her face, instead of her wings. “Hannah,” he said gruffly.

“Castiel,” she responded.

“You called me,” he added unnecessarily, in their easy native Enochian.   

Her head tilted slightly, and she watched him. “I did. I might have come to you, but I knew you were…” She paused, noting in a tiny gesture the other angels in their company. “Among friends,” she finished.

Castiel appreciated her tact, though he was surprised by it. “Yes. I was. But I am always available to Heaven when you need me.” He followed her into a glassed office, and they closed the door. They were still visible to the others, but would no longer be heard.

“Yes. Well, we have discussed your role here, and you have made it clear just how available you are.”

His blue eyes widened. He could feel his wings responding to her tone, and a very old reflex kicked in to keep them emotionless. “Sister, I have never failed to give everything for Heaven and the Host when I was called to do so. When I’ve been needed, I have never hesitated, not so long as the need was just.”

“Castiel.” Her voice had softened, and she had even allowed her wings to lower a fraction of an inch. “No one would deny that. Least of all me. I apologize if I have been unfair. I will always respect your wishes.”

He wanted to relax, but found that he could not do so. “Hannah, you told me you required my presence.”

“No,” she corrected softly. “I told you I requested your presence.”

He waited.

Hannah sighed. “Castiel, I wanted to check on you.”

A severe frown passed over his face and became a wince. “Check on me? I don’t understand.” He was burdened with the memories of having been dragged back to Heaven to be corrected, disciplined, and realigned. The shame of those experiences, the frustration and humiliation of it all, ate at his all-too-human heart. It seemed that no matter what the regime changes in Heaven wrought, there was only one consistency, and that was that Castiel could not be trusted on his own. No matter what changed, he would always need checking up on.

“Your Grace, Castiel.”

He lowered his own gaze, his frown softening only slightly. He was tired. It only proved his earlier thought. After all, angels were not meant to get tired. “Ah. Yes. I…don’t believe that will continue to be a problem. Assuming I’m not thrown from the gates again, I think I will not need any restoration.”

She reacted with her eyes, but her wings were admirably still. Hannah’s wings were disciplined in a way that Castiel’s never truly had been. He had spent eons considering it an inexcusable failing, his inability to completely hide emotions he should never have felt in the first place. It was mere habit to be impressed with another angel’s ability to keep her wings entirely aloof in spite of surprise. He had decided that level of discipline was too taxing for him to bother with, and had given himself permission to express his wings in understated ways in recent years. After all, he was the rebel, was he not? Social taboo among angels was the least of his concern at present, and he was finished pretending to be something he was not, had never truly been. 

There was some pride in being too broken to fix. He was Castiel, the famous spanner in the works, the foot soldier who came off the line with a crack in his chassis. He had been a thorn in Zachariah’s side; Naomi had been unable to correct him; Metatron had found him exasperating. The only one that truly pained him was Michael. He had served Michael for so long, only to betray him in the end. But he was that broken angel, and it was to be expected of him, to disappoint the Host leadership over and over.

“Castiel? Is there more to that story?”

His frown broke finally, and he allowed a smile to shine through. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was…remembering.”

Hannah nodded and looked down at the floor, as if she were considering his words. But she remained silent.  “I will tell you the story one day, Hannah. For now, if you have no mission for me, I would prefer to return to Earth, to rest further among my friends.” 

“You’re among friends here, Castiel,” she said softly.

He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and knew his wings were splaying out tensely. “Of course I am, Hannah. And if my brothers and sisters need anything of me, I will gladly perform any task to my greatest ability. Until then, it is important that the Host finds a way to reconcile very deep wounds. We have lost some of the most powerful and greatest among us, and those holes will never be filled. I am the last angel you need right now. My mere presence causes tension and reminds them all of the many, many times they had to choose sides in the past few years. Right now, there need to be no sides, only a common rebuilding and unification. I am the…” He smiled through a pain that flowed through every part of his being. “Hannah, I’m the crack in our chassis.”

Her eyebrow raised, and eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t…”

“It doesn’t matter. I appreciate your kindness to me, Hannah, your desire to bring me back into the fold, as though I deserve to be here. I appreciate that you obviously would like me to return. You don’t know how grateful I am for that, Hannah, that you would see me come back to stay. But if you understand anything about me, if you know half the things I’ve done, you know I can’t. The Host must unify, and I will only ever divide. Knowing that at least you do not blame me for everything that has happened, or else you are willing to forgive me for it, it means a great deal to me. I haven’t been a true angel in a very long time, Hannah. It’s time for me to admit I’ll never be a true angel again.”

She opened her mouth, and for the first time, he saw her wings shudder with profound sadness.

He touched her cheek softly, a very human gesture, and he watched her close her beautiful eyes against his caress. “Call me if you need anything, Hannah. I am truly proud of you, and everything you have done. And I am proud that you consider me a friend. There have been many times in my life, especially recently, that I have considered myself quite friendless. I treasure you.”

Hannah smiled finally, and nodded. “Castiel, you are always a part of us. You are always welcome here. I’m not the only one who misses you.”

***

Dean's eyes looked at something only he could see for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a hoarse voice, and Sam swallowed reflexively. "You know the worst torture you can inflict on a guy in Hell?"

Sam's breath caught in his throat.

"You stop. You let the guy rest. You give him water. It's all you need down there, and it's all you want. There's no body, really, but until you've crumbled completely into ash and black smoke, you feel like you have a body. So you feel thirsty. Not hungry. Just this horrible, horrible thirst, all the time."

Sam looked at his whiskey, but did not move to drink it.

"You give him water. You let him rest, for a few hours. And every minute that passes, he's still in pain but his mind is fighting to recover. And every minute that passes, he gets closer to remembering what it feels like to be human, what it feels like to not be in pain. The relief shuts down after about an hour, and then the panic sets in. 'Cause he knows it isn't going to last. The remembering is eating him up, and the anticipation of what he knows is coming makes him crazy. The water that felt so good before starts to make him sick. After about three hours, he's begging you to start again. As if he can just get it over with. Because he's already started to forget that this is for forever. There's no getting it over with. But he'll beg you to tear into him again, to peel him apart, because he knows the pain is coming and the relief is making him go mad. But instead, you walk away, let him lie there, let him haunt himself. When you get them to the point where they would rather be thirsty than rest, that's when you know their humanity is almost gone. When they want their humanity to be gone. You can break them into smoke then. Because until then, they still think they want to be human. Part of them still wants it. But you give them a few hours of remembering, with no hope of it lasting, and they break every time."

The heart in Sam's tight chest fluttered out of rhythm. He waited.

"That's how black smoke is made. It's what's left when a soul finally gives up the humanity. Some give up nearly right away. But a lot of us are stubborn."

"You never gave up. Neither did Dad or Bobby."

Dean smiled sadly. "That's because I wasn't the one torturing us."

Sam felt his heart breaking. He did not know what to say to that.

"The cage. It wasn't like that?"

He shook his head. "No. It wasn't physical like that. Not in the same way. Or maybe...maybe it was more physical. For me, at least. My body was actually there."

"And Adam?" Dean fretted.

"No. Adam's body crumbled the instant we hit the cage. His soul was gone, and there was nothing keeping it together."

Dean let out a breath.

"No, Michael was ejected right away. And Lucifer left me like he was dropping his coat at the door. He screamed for days before he did anything else. It was the most horrible sound you can imagine, and I thought it would never stop. Finally, Michael finished sulking and lunged at him. It took a really long time before they accepted that there could be no victory for either of them in that place. Two flashes of impossible light tearing at one another, sounds of teeth gnashing and wings ripping, but it didn't get them anywhere. So once they had gotten their frustration out on one another, and blinded me in the process, they all of the sudden stopped and turned to me, as if it had occurred to them that I was the cause of all this."

The older brother sucked air through his teeth.

"And I don't know if it was a lifetime of being a little brother or what, but when I could feel them staring at me, after days, maybe weeks of not speaking, trying not to draw attention to myself, I just turned to them and said, 'You know what? You two assholes started it.'"

Dean's anxiety burst out in a roar of laughter. "What the hell?" he rumbled.

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. They didn't like that. But it felt good to say it.” He took a deep breath. “And that’s when they decided to team up on me. It was never boring. That’s for sure. Angels, even the ones like Michael, are infinitely creative. And it wasn’t physical torture, not like you’re talking about. It was all in my head. They crawled into my skull, sometimes together, sometimes one at a time, and they just messed with me. It was like Clockwork Orange with my eyes closed. Like every nightmare you’ve ever had, playing one right after another, no time for the adrenaline to die down, till you’re sick from it, but it doesn’t stop. Remember that time you and Charlie got screwed with by that djinn? The one that fed on fear and panic? How it kept running her through the same thing over and over, and every time she thought she was out, it would send her through again.”

“Yeah,” Dean acknowledged softly, tilting his tumbler back. “Yeah.”

“So it was different for me every time, a different nightmare, running from a different situation, fighting a different thing, but once one story ended, another one immediately began. It got to where I could tell who was screwing with me at the moment. Michael’s illusions were all combat, all monsters and zombies and vamps and shit. Lucifer would join him, and suddenly, it was more psychological, you know, like Cas being torn apart by other angels, and me not able to save him. You and Dad screaming for me while werewolves ripped into you. When it was just Lucifer, it was all emotional shit, weird stuff. Like the worst acid trip you can imagine.”

“Dude, you’ve never tried acid.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “And now I’ll never need to. The guy’s a complete sadist. Every possible way to break my heart, he knew. He just knew somehow.”

Dean winced at the choice of words.

“It was nearly a relief when Michael came at me alone, because then I was just fighting things attacking me. As soon as Lucifer was in my head too, I was failing to save everyone I’ve ever loved. The world was burning, because I had killed Lilith, and leaping into the pit changed nothing. He loved showing me reruns. That was his favorite, I think, making me watch again. Watching me beat the shit out of you. Watching me attacking you and Bobby while possessed by Meg. Watching me snap my own fingers and…” He made a choking sound from deep in his soul. “You know. Killing Cas.” He breathed again. “Snapping Bobby’s neck. Even stuff I hadn’t done, but had seen, like Dad nearly killing you while Yellow Eyes was in him. Yellow Eyes. Man, some days, he just let me alone, but I’d look over at him, and he’d just watch me with those eyes of Azazel’s and he’d wink.”

When the silence lasted more than a few beats, his brother’s hand touched his gently. “Dude, we don’t have to do this. We didn’t talk about this stuff for years. We don’t have to now.”

Sam nodded. “I want to. I don’t want to do it ever again. But I want to now.”

Dean sighed heavily. He seemed to know it was his turn, to let Sam catch his breath. “Okay. Well. You talked about the adrenaline. Purgatory, man. That’s all it was. I think back on it, and I don’t even know if it was possible for me to die there. Like, I could probably be killed, but I don’t know if that even…I don’t know if it would have stopped there. Because I think the adrenaline would have killed me if that were even possible. I had a heart attack once. I know what that does to you. This was like living every minute about to have a heart attack. That pain of your heart about to explode at any second. And yet you gotta be alert, or the next second might find a vampire ripping out your throat. I can’t even…Hell was calm. It was just pain and gore. And once I let them take me off the rack, once I agreed to…From then on, it was just this cold, violent calm, this rage that doesn’t even register hot. Just bitter, calm wrath.” He was quiet for a moment, then licked his lips. “It’s how the Mark feels sometimes,” he admitted hoarsely.

His brother looked up into his eyes, and the pain Dean found there was impossible to ignore.

“Sammy, please don’t look at me like that. I can’t talk if you look at me like that.”

“I’m sorry. I just…I can’t think that these things we’re talking about, that any of it is still happening to one of us.”

A crooked smile crossed Dean’s tired face. “Yeah. Well, it’s different now. It’s just the Mark now, it ain’t me. If it ever gets to be me again…Cas and I have already talked through that.”

The face before him flinched in pain. “I know.”

“I guess you do. Anyway, Purgatory. It was different. I know you resented Benny. But he kept me alive, kept me human, as much as that doesn’t make a bit of sense. Then when I found Castiel, it was…But until then, I was on my own. Once I had comrades, that was different. Being on my own, for the first time…Sammy, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

“It’s because I’m taller.”

The unexpected joke punched a laugh out of Dean. He was grateful for the small release in tension. He pushed his glass to Sam, and let him pour two more fingers into it. Then he continued. “Yeah. You told me once we didn’t have the same priorities anymore, like our roles in all this crap were suddenly all screwy or something. I don’t know, you were talking, I was nodding.”

“Jackass.”

He chuckled, and gulped at his drink. It was finally making him warm. “But as long as you had a soul, dude, we’ve always had each other’s back. Always. You hated me for a while. I didn’t understand you…like, ever. And yet we always had each other’s back. In Purgatory, you can’t tell one day from another. There’s no sun exactly. It’s dark gray or light gray. That’s the only way you can tell time. So I have no idea how long I was on my own. But it was horrible. Memories of good stuff makes up our personal Heavens. If memories of bad shit made up our personal Hells, if Lucifer decided to let me watch my greatest hits, that time in Purgatory by myself would be on a constant loop. You won’t be shocked by this. But I guess it kind of hit home just how much I need a partner. How much I need to look after somebody, and how much I need somebody at my side. I missed you, man.”

Sam smiled with his eyes more than his mouth. He tipped back his glass and then set it down in finality. “I guess it’s a good thing you found your way back, then. You’re right that I resented Benny. But I’ll never stop being grateful to him that he got you back here.”

“Yeah. And you too,” Dean murmured, his face awash in emotion.

Sam nodded. “You done?”

“So done.” It was said with a whoosh of breath, and the relief was evident. 

He closed up the Johnny Walker. “Thanks. For talking. Let’s never do it again.”

Dean swallowed his whiskey and nodded. “But let’s keep drinking, huh?”

The smile finally stretched across Sam’s whole face. “Hell yes.”

***

“Sam, let's go be pirates.”

“What?”

“I'm drunk and I want to go be a pirate. I'd be a good pirate. Look, I can drive anything. Except maybe a plane. I probably couldn't drive a plane.”

“Not while wasted and with your hands over your eyes, no.”

“Shut up. Jackass. Pirates have boats. Benny was a pirate.”

“Benny? Vamp Benny? He was a vampirate?”

“I know! That's what I said!”

Castiel listened to the men with a fondness that bordered closely with annoyance. The two most dangerous humans on the planet were idiotic drunks.

It was a bit of a surprise to hear Dean enjoying himself so much. Whenever Castiel had seen him imbibe there had been very little joy taken in it. Perhaps it had to do with the request Dean had made for Castiel to fetch a certain type of sake. Castiel was uncertain he liked the wink Dean had bestowed on Sam as the word fetch had been used, but as Sam had smiled and nodded, the angel had been happy to make a quick trip to Japan. When asked to ensure the sake bottle contained no Japanese spirits, they had both laughed at him when he had questioned if that wasn't the point of alcohol.

He had taken longer to check in with Hannah than he had expected, and the chat had left him even more certain that the self-imposed exile to the bunker was the right idea. Hannah was...far more complicated than any angel had a right to be.

He had returned to the bunker to find Sam and Dean mostly intoxicated already, but quietly so. The sake had turned that around quickly, and now Sam was falling victim to giddiness. Sam was a happy, weepy drunk. He always had been. The phenomenon of bliss followed by misery chased with splashes of hope made Castiel's head spin, but it was always interesting to watch.

“You'd be the only pirate to be blaring The Who and hunting mermaids,” Sam stated as he awkwardly reached for the sake bottle. He had long since given up on a glass.

“The…who?"

“The Who.”

“I don’t..."

Dean burst into laughter, slapping his leg, then reaching out and slapping Castiel's. The angel frowned at him. “Ah, Mr. Immigrant Song doesn’t…The Who! You know! Whooooo are you? Who who?"

“I'm sorry. Are you making a reference to…something?"

Sam cackled. “It's like watching Who's on First, dude,” he snickered to Dean.

“Who…” Castiel sighed.

“Who's on First. It's a...a comedy...Dude, it's a classic!”

Castiel shook his head. “Metatron has injected a wide variety of human literature, and cinematic and theatrical productions into my knowledge base. I am not familiar with that particular classic, unfortunately.”

Dean grabbed the bottle. “Yeah, well, Metatron's crash course didn't download the good stuff.”

Castiel frowned. “I find that difficult to believe,” he murmured, but this only made the men laugh harder.

There was an abandoned bottle of whiskey nearby. Castiel doubted it had been full this afternoon, but it was certainly empty now. Dean had once referred to him as a hammer, and he was not, when it came to being a soldier of Heaven. But when it came to liquor, the angel had never bothered to develop a taste for anything in particular. It was all molecules anyway. When he drank, it was more about quantity than quality. So he cared very little about what it was the men were imbibing, and concentrated only on how it affected them.

The music was on, but it was quieter than usual. They were sprawled across the couches, in various states of dress. Castiel had removed his coats and tie, and had even left his shoes in the hall at Dean’s suggestion. Dean’s suggestions, after all, were akin to commands, and this was his home, not Castiel’s, so he had done as he was bid. Sam had attempted to peel off his running shoes and socks a while ago, and had been forced to hold off on the task long enough to let his head clear. He had managed to lose a layer at some point, and lay across the larger couch in his tee shirt and jogging pants. Dean was barefoot, in jeans and his gray henley, with various pieces of jewelry on his wrists and fingers. Castiel thought he had not seen the men look so young in years.

“Sam, may I sit with you?” Castiel asked gently.

Dean snorted. “Guy shows up every time I see him in the freaking bedroom and bathroom with me, but he asks you if he can sit next to you.”

“He knows you’re more of a slut than I am,” Sam called to him. He sat up to make room, and got distracted trying to take his shoe off again.

“He doesn’t know you very well. You’re a freaking tramp. Cas, he’s a tramp. You know that, right?”

Castiel watched the interaction thoughtfully. “I’ve found that the number of sexual partners a human has had is often a source of critique from peers.”

“Yeah?” Dean laughed. “Well, I’d probably congratulate him if he ever got laid when he wasn’t soulless, high or screwed up.”

“Bite me, Dean!”

“Serious, Cas. He needs to get laid by someone who isn’t trying to eat him or screw with his destiny, while he’s got a soul.”

Sam rolled his eyes, then looked as though he regretted doing so. “Dean, you’re the one took him to a freaking whore house.”

“Are you pouting? Really? We were all about to die, and you weren’t going to make a move. What was I supposed to do?”

Castiel cleared his throat, and sat down awkwardly. “Sam, I did not actually-“

“Of course you didn’t! That’s not the point! My brother tried to get you laid by somebody wasn’t me! And what about the reaper? I blame you for that too, Dean!” he insisted. He lay down again, placing his head on the angel’s lap heavily.

Dean began to cackle. “How the hell is that my fault? Guy got that all on his own!” He threw a grin and a wink at Castiel, who frowned.

“Perhaps you’re forgetting that reaper was seeking me as an assassination target.”

“Fun till then, though, right?”

Sam groaned. “I don’t want to think about it, okay? Bitch almost killed him.” He looked up at his angel with hurt scrawled across his face. “Cas, you’re not safe with anyone else. Stay here with me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You stabbed him. With an angel blade.”

His brother’s head popped up to glare. “That was a long time ago!”

Castiel heaved a great sigh. “Sam,” he said finally, “I have no intention to go looking for other company. I think I have been quite clear on that topic.”

Dean snorted again. “Whatever. This is getting a bit too threesome for me. I’m going to roll to bed, guys.”

“No, Dean, stay!” Sam called. “I’ll be a pirate!”

The older man doubled in laughter as he tried to stand on shaky legs. “Jesus, we’d be awesome pirates, Sammy!” He pushed himself up with difficulty. “Cas? Mind helping me to my pad?”

Castiel gently lifted Sam’s head, taking a fraction of a second to stroke the brown hair, then stood from under it. “Of course, Dean.”

“Sam, go to bed, dumbass.” Dean gave him a sort of glare that Castiel did not understand, then turned to the angel. “Come on, fly boy.”

He reached out to steady his human-brother, but the moment they had turned a corner, Dean’s stride gained immediate confidence. His eyes cleared of fog, and he turned to face the angel with far too much dexterity for someone who should have been utterly intoxicated. “Dean?” 

“Listen to me,” he hissed, and he took a step toward Castiel. It was nearly threatening. "Listen. Sam is waiting on you to make your move. You need to man up."

Castiel felt his wings flutter nervously. "You mean sex."

"I mean something. He's my brother. But you're also my best friend. So I'm going to give you some tips. He ain't like that babysitting gig. He don't need flowers and crap. But there's one thing you have to do."

Castiel was listening intently.

"It's Sammy, Cas. You gotta let him know he's safe."

The angel began to protest, but Dean cut him off.

"I'm telling you. Nobody knows that kid like me. You aren't just a random lay. He loves you, man. You gotta let him know he isn't going to get his heart ripped out. Figuratively or literally."

"And how do I do that?"

Dean sighed. "I don't know, man. But you got to. He wants to believe in this, in you. He don't trust easily, Cas. You know that. For that matter, neither do you. He's going to try to rush you, because he's not going to believe it's going to last. Don't let him, because then it won't. You getting any of this?"

"Sam is still plagued by insecurity and will try to push our relationship to run its course far faster than it should because he is afraid."

"You have it."

"That explains much actually."

Dean shrugged. "Go get him, tiger."

Castiel began to turn, then felt a hand on his collar. He gave a surprised yelp.

"Also? You do rip his heart out figuratively and I will rip your lungs out literally. We clear?"

"Of course," he muttered.

Dean's generous smile was back as if his green eyes had not just flashed with murderous madness. "Good. Have fun."

Castiel stared at him as he walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. "Good night, Dean," he said dryly to the empty space.

***

Sam had finally succeeded in taking off his second shoe. He had lost it immediately, but he could find it in the morning. Dean had given him a look that had practically ordered him to go prepare for Castiel's return before dragging his angel off to give him the birds and bees talk, Sam supposed.

He giggled to himself. He could just hear Dean trying to give The Talk to Castiel. Dean had been the one who had taught Sam about everything important growing up. Dean had demonstrated how to shave, educated him on how to order a drink, catechized about how to field strip his weapons and care for them. Dean had taught him the minutiae, like filing the side of his boot's tread so his footprint would never quite match the style of his boot, and the essentials like why you wore a condom no matter what the girl said. Dean had given him The Talk, when he realized their father had completely forgotten about it.

Once every few years, they had a night like tonight, when they laid everything bare, and Dean let him ask any questions he needed to. The next morning, they would pretend it had never happened. The first time had been hard. It was the time Dean had finally told him what their father did, and that there was no Santa. The only question that remained off the table was talk of Mary. It was John who had finally fielded those questions.

So when Dean had ambushed him after school one day, one look on his face told Sam it was time for another night of big talk. That was how he had thought of it. This big talk had included less anatomy and more brotherly advice, but Sam had gotten his questions answered.

He supposed Castiel would too.

So he was ready when the soft knock came at the door. "Sam? Are you awake?"

His heart began to pound at the sound of his angel's voice, the sandpaper over velvet. "Yeah, Cas. Come in."

The door opened slowly, and Castiel stepped in to close it again behind him. He leaned against the door hard.

Obviously he had not expected Sam to be naked.

“Sam,” he murmured, almost a whimper.

The hunter grinned. He was glad to know that the enormous effort it had taken to peel off his clothing had been worth it. Castiel’s expression was a mosaic of emotions, and his wings positively vibrated. One day when he could move his head without losing his vision and balance, he would commit every movement of Castiel’s gorgeous wings to memory, study what every tiny shift and shiver meant. The angel was beautiful.

Sam smiled triumphantly, as he corrected himself. _His_ angel was beautiful.


	3. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel slows things down. 
> 
> Dean makes a call.

Castiel licked his lips with the point of his pink tongue. There was obvious desire in his eyes. His primary feathers trembled badly, gave away his arousal and fear even as he tried to seem confident. Knowing Sam could see them tremor made it even worse, and he could feel his face flushing warm. 

Sam was intoxicated. There was no doubt, as there had been with Dean. Dean had been far less affected than he had let on. But Sam had no such deception playing. Castiel could see his eyes struggling to focus, and the way his smile twitched as he tried to hold it steady. 

The angel stepped forward. His head was throbbing with a thousand thoughts. Chief among these was a concern that Sam was far too drunk to be a good judge of what was and was not a good idea. He remembered Dean's warning that Sam would push them too fast out of a fear that their love was not strong enough or safe enough, that it would be gone in a week. This fear would tear up any chance they had at making it last. 

So when he finally touched Sam, it was a caress of his hand on the hunter's face, with a tenderness he would never be able to express in words.

"Sam?"

Desire seemed to steam from Sam's pores. Castiel was certain he could smell it, and it nearly made him mad with want. But he forced himself to look into Sam's eyes.

"Sam, if you'll let me, I would like to touch you. But..."

A shiver of fright shook the large, beautiful body. "But?"

"Sam, I want to have sex with you. Very, very much. But tonight, I just want to touch you. Will you let me do that?"

The huge hazel orbs watched him in confusion. But he nodded. "Yes, of course."

"It's important, Sam. Please trust me. Sam, you are safe with me, as I am with you. We have all the time in the world." This was a phrase from one of the stories Metatron had given him. It seemed terribly inadequate, but he knew of no other way to express himself. "We have time."

Tears flooded the hazel, turning them a lovely, sad russet. "But we don't. Not really. Your Grace, Cas. And any given hunt, something could go wrong. I want..." He hiccoughed through a sob. "Want you now. Might not get another chance."

Castiel felt his heart rending at the sound of Sam's voice, at the quiet panic. He wanted to surrender, to give Sam anything he wanted, anything he needed. Hadn't the man earned everything, minute or great, that he could ever want? For Father's sake, he had given everything of himself, time and again. Who was this small angel, this flawed and bitter creature, who would deny him even the most basic of needs, to fail him yet again? 

But Dean said. 

And that was enough for Castiel to stand firm. "Sam, I promise you I love you in a way Death himself could never unmake. There will be no reaping for us, Sam, and as long as you want me, I will never let something so temporal as death keep me from you."

Sam's tears slipped down his cheeks. His angel lowered himself to the bed, kissing the streaks of salt. 

"Sam Winchester, I am here to stay. And I will never stop loving you. You think I don't know enough, that I am naive. But I am older than the oldest tree on your world, and I know what forever means. I know what never is, in a way you could not imagine. I will love you forever. I will never hurt you again. And until it is what you want, I will never leave your side. When I say we have time, Sam, I know you can't understand it the way I do. But I'm asking you to trust me. We are safe together. You never have to be afraid of us. And I promise that you do not need to hurry."

"Cas!" It was a sob, ripped directly from his heart. 

He licked his lips again. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to touch you. I'm going to make love to you. And we are not going to have sex tonight. Maybe not for many nights. I want to wait until the only urgency that remains is that of pleasure, not fear. I know you think I don't know anything about these things, and you're right. But I know you, and I know me, and I know we deserve something better than a hurry."

"Castiel, I love you."

He sighed with relief. "I love you." His strong hands reached for his human's face, cupping it as he leaned down to paint his adoration all over Sam's salty lips with his own. His wings thrilled with the touch, and Sam's muscles rippled with joy beneath him. Castiel tasted the hunter's mouth, drank in his breath, inhaled the scent of sweat and liquor and Sam. His hands slid down Sam's chest, worshipping his skin in a way the angel knew must be sacrilege, though he did not care. With every touch of his fingertips came a soft gasp or a lovely moan. He kissed Sam's throat and shoulders, moving his lips without lifting them, dragging hot breath down the length of his lover delicately. He kissed every part of Sam, the tenderness of it drawing from the touch-starved man whimpers, until at last he wept. 

It was bliss simply to touch Sam, to run his hands down the man's arms, through his hair, across his powerful chest even as it heaved sobs. More than anything, Castiel was filled with gratitude that he was permitted to bring the man even an ounce of the pleasure he deeply deserved. That he, flawed, broken angel that he was, managed to elicit sighs of contentment and breaths of relief from Sam Winchester...it was the most beautiful thing he could ever have hoped for. 

He worshipped Sam's soft stomach, reveling in the way it shied from his fingertips, then relaxed. Hands moved ever so gently to his hunter's large and attentive member. He felt more than heard as Sam sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly as Castiel kissed this too. The angel moved on to his thighs, his knees, and he spent time rubbing Sam's feet and kissing them with reverence. 

There was no longer any tension between them. Castiel was doing just as he said, making love to the man. Sam's weeping subsided gradually, and his body curled into Castiel's with a bone-deep weariness. Castiel cradled the large, naked human in his arms, and let his wings surround them. 

"I love you so much," Sam murmured hoarsely. "Please be here when I wake up." 

The wings stroked the bare skin lightly, and provided the warmth his body craved. Castiel kissed Sam's nose fondly. "I will be," he vowed. 

Neither Heaven nor Hell nor anything between or beyond could make Castiel break this promise.

***

Dean could feel the Mark searching. It never rested. Nothing could make it rest. Tears streamed unchecked down his face, and his hand yanked mercilessly at his hair. 

The Mark was never going to let him rest. 

He lay still on his back, feeling the Mark rejecting the alcohol, the food, the emotional relief from the evening's releases. It burned angrily, seethed red and hot. It had metabolized everything Dean had fed it, the eggs, the sandwich, the Johnny Walker, the sake. It spat out the feelings of relief that came with talking to Sam about nightmares from the past. It snarled and crushed his pride in Castiel and his hopes for his brother's happiness. It left him utterly empty, except for its own vicious need. 

It never stopped searching. It never ceased in its hatred of him for losing that beautiful, terrible blade. It would never forgive him for allowing the separation of two halves. 

It would never let him rest, not until he made it right again. Not until he found the First Blade. 

Dean's hand tore at his short hair, ripping at it until he could feel his scalp protesting. A primitive sound pumped out of his throat, and he threw his legs off the bed to sit up. He stared at his knife, then at his phone. 

Before he had consciously made a decision, he could feel the blood dripping from his arm. Frowning at the distinct lack of pain, he hurried to catch the blood in a bowl which usually held empty shells waiting to be packed with salt. 

Without even realizing what he was doing, the Mark reached into Dean's mind for words he had heard but never spoken, mostly clipped Latin in a Kansas boy's tongue. The blood began to ripple morbidly. 

He could hear voices whispering in his ear, as though an insect were buzzing just out of sight. It was language, he supposed, but he did not bother trying to listen. "Crowley," he growled through bared teeth. "Get me Crowley."

The buzzing became frenetic, and he wanted to throw the bowl against the wall. Instead, he gripped his forearm with the bottom of his shirt to curb the bleeding, and spoke again. 

"You heard me. This is Dean Winchester. I'm a Knight of Hell. And if you don't get Crowley on the line immediately, I'm going to reach through this blood spell and pull your rocks out your nostrils."

"Hello, Dean," purred the familiar velvet accent. 

"Where's my Blade, Crowley?"

His head filled with a cackle of delight. "Oh, Dean, darling. Having some seller's remorse?"

"I didn't sell it to you, you son of a bitch. You took it from my brother."

"Is that how you remember it? Sam bartered. You for the Blade. It was a fine deal for me."

"You're full of crap. That Blade is just a bone without me."

"And you're just a jackass without it, pet. Did you call long-distance just to chat about your bone, or did you have something larger and more timely to discuss?"

Dean felt a surge of murderous fury flow through him, and he tried to push it down. "Where is it, Crowley?"

"Somewhere entirely out of your reach, mate, unless I determine it is in my best interest for you to have it. What's the matter, Dean? Having some issues with impulse control? Need Daddy to come help you through? Or shall I call your sponsor and tell him you're thinking of diving headlong off the wagon into a lake of blood?"

"Shut the hell up, you ass!"

Crowley's quiet laugh was crystal clear over the connection. "Whose blood are you calling from, Dean? Is that Moose's blood? Maybe pretty Jody's? Or just some random civilian? An innocent? Because that's what's coming, Dean. You won't be able to stop it. I fed Abbadon's cronies to you, and you loved it. Now you've got no bone and no one to bone. No one to let your Mark play with. Have fun with that."

Dean cried out desperately. "Crowley! Don't leave me like this!" he warned shrilly. 

"Good night, Dean. Sleep well, bestie. Or should I say beastie?"

The blood went still, and Dean knew he was alone again. He threw the bowl to the floor and grabbed his knees, pulling them to his chest. 

He was alone again, alone with the Mark of Cain. 

***


	4. How Did He Love Thee?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying up loose ends...
> 
> (Working title for this short chapter? 99 Problems, but the Reaper Bitch Wasn't the Only One.)

Castiel waited for Sam to open his eyes before moving. The man had tossed himself around the bed all night, and he had nearly punched Castiel in the face several times. At last, the angel had snuck off the bed to sit at Sam's desk chair instead. He had stroked Sam's hair and arms with the lightest touch, and waited.

Sam breathed in deeply through his nose, and began to smile before his eyes had even opened. "Cas?" he whispered. "You're there, aren't you?"

"I promised I would be."

Finally, the eyes opened, and he looked at the angel with adoration. "I would have understood if you hadn't been."

Castiel did not smile. "Sam," he murmured, "we talked about giving you a new chapter. And from now on, in your story, the character of Castiel does not lie to those he loves." A hand brushed across the morning stubble on Sam's cheek lovingly. "He does not break promises."

Sam's eyes were bright. "I like the way the story is headed, Cas."

"So do I," he responded solemnly. "Sam, I need to correct something."

The hunter sat up slowly. "Yeah? What's that?"

Castiel licked his pink lips before speaking. He had been crafting his communication strategy for an hour now. But there did not seem to be a good way to say it.

"Cas? What's wrong, man?"

"Sam, there's something that happened, something that I let happen, after...after I released Leviathans into your world."

"A lot of stuff happened after that, man. What's wrong?"

Castiel stared down at his hands. "Sam? Part of not lying includes divulging the whole truth, does it not?"

Sam took a deep breath. "I...yeah, I guess so. You aren't in a courtroom, Cas. You don't have to tell me everything."

"I think in this case I do. You see, Sam, I was married. And it occurs to me that perhaps technically I still am."

Sam gave a violent jolt. "What-you mean Jimmy's wife? Cas, that's not-"

"Her name is Daphne Allen. And mine was Emmanuel."

Realization bloomed on Sam's face. "Oh my god. It's just like Amelia."

"Sam, Daphne was kind, and I think I was very fond of her. I may have even loved her for that time, before I knew who I was. She saved me, cared for me, believed in me. She thought God had put us together."

Sam's jaw tightened, and he nodded as though forcing his muscles to obey. "Okay. I know. Dean told me Emmanuel was married. But that wasn't you, Cas!"

The blue eyes lifted slowly. "It was me, Sam. I didn't know myself, but I knew her, and I married her."

Sam threw himself out of the bed, his bare feet smacking against the hard floor. He grabbed at his dresser drawer and put on the boxer briefs he found there. Then he pulled on his jeans, forgotten on the floor two days ago. At last, he turned back to Castiel. "It doesn't matter. She didn't know you. You aren't obligated to anything, especially not after all this time! We didn't study much family law in my intro classes, but I'm pretty sure when you abandon your spouse for years on end, you aren't still considered married!"

Castiel nodded sadly. "Perhaps not. And revisiting her after all this time would serve no purpose. But I've committed to being honest with you, Sam, and I realized in the night that you believed I had only ever had a brief relationship with Meg and the reaper. My time with Daphne was longer and more complex than either of those relationships. It isn't fair, to you or to her, to pretend it did not happen."

Sam took a long breath, then exhaled forcefully. "Cas, she couldn't have meant to you what..."

"No one has ever meant to me what you do."

The man swallowed hard. "And you don't feel obligated to her now?"

"No. I feel some guilt for having abandoned her without an explanation. She saw me drive away with Dean, and I never spoke to her again. But beyond that, I truly do not feel...I have a fond memory of her warmth and kindness, and I am grateful for her help. But I don't actually recall feeling love for her. I assume I did. But that is not something I can feel as Castiel, as I must have as Emmanuel."

"So...does this change...anything?"

The frown deepened. "I hope not. But that will be up to you. Sam, I cannot give you anything but what I am. You deserve to know exactly what that is."

"I know you, Cas."

"There's something else."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Naturally. Yeah, of course there is. There's always something else. Go on."

Castiel tilted his head, then stood to face Sam. "If I'm being honest, there's more you should know about my Grace."

The breath hitched in Sam's throat, and large hands took hold of the angel's arms. "What about it? Cas, are you all right? Did something happen?"

He looked up into Sam's worried eyes for a moment before speaking. All bitterness and hurt was gone from the sweet face, and all that remained was concern. "No, Sam. When you saved me back at Harlan Lake, in the residence of Magnus, you did something that has never been done before."

"I recharged your battery. Did I do something wrong?"

"You did not simply add power to the stolen Grace, Sam. You weaved for me a new one."

Sam sat hard on the bed. "I don't understand."

"And neither do I. There is no precedent for it. But it is clearly true. I am in possession of my own, true Grace, not that with which I was made, but which you made for me. You built my Grace with your hands, Sam."

Of all the revelations, Sam latched on to just one. "You aren't dying anymore?" he hissed, tears flooding his eyes.

At last, Castiel smiled. "No, Sam. I'm not dying anymore."

The hunter's strong arms draped around him, and held him tightly. He basked in Sam's elation, and let his face burrow into his bare shoulder and neck with a satisfied sigh. Sam gripped his hair, holding him even closer, and he let out just one choked sob before pulling Castiel's chin up to join their lips.

Castiel was glad he had told Sam these two things. He was especially glad he had told them in that order.

***


	5. Obligato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligato (obbligato) originally referred to an instrument or musical line that was essential to a performance. Over time, it got twisted to mean the opposite, that it was an optional addition. 
> 
> At this point, Castiel is trying to determine what is the key component of Dean's downfall. Can the Mark take him by itself, or does it require the First Blade to turn him? And what was Crowley's role? For that matter, how essential to the equation is Dean's own will?
> 
> Dean's emotional state declines sharply, and his coping takes a nasty turn.

The newspaper was completely torn apart and left in crinkled sections on the table, next to a half-empty mug of cold coffee. There were no fewer than twenty different weapons in various stages of maintenance lying on the table. An uneaten sandwich had been tossed into the newspaper carelessly. Dean's wide-open duffle was falling off of one of the chairs, haphazardly packed with boots and shirts.

Sam surveyed the room with concern. He pulled his gun from his waistband, but it was simply his hand reacting automatically to the fear that was rising in him.

"Dean?"

Castiel emerged from the bedroom behind him. His reaction to their surroundings was similar to Sam's. The Hunter's sharp ears could hear the angel's blade sliding into his hand.

But there was no need. The next sound they heard identified the location and state of mind of Dean Winchester.

The growl came from the corner of the room, where the man sat on his heels against the wall. His chest heaved wildly, and he was clutching a Bowie knife like a lifeline.

"Dean?" Sam said again, rushing toward him.

"Get away from me, Sammy!" came the hoarse shriek.

Castiel stepped forward with a deep frown. He put himself very deliberately between the brothers. "Dean, what are you seeing?"

Sam turned to stare at him. What was that supposed to mean?

Dean was shaking his head frantically.

Castiel put his hand out slowly as if approaching a dangerous, frightened animal. "Okay. Not seeing. Hearing. What are you hearing, Dean?"

The man looked up at Castiel with desperation in his eyes. "I can't let it get to Sammy," he cried pitifully.

Sam flicked his eyes between his brother and his angel several times. "Cas? Is there something here?"

Castiel shook his head quickly, then turned his attention back to Dean, gesturing for Sam's quiet. "Dean, Sam is all right. I'll protect him."

His brother was obviously in pain, and Sam ached to see it. What could possibly have happened to him to make him so afraid? He had not seen Dean like this since the ghost fever.

"Cas, please," Dean pleaded. "I can't stop it. You have to keep him safe."

Castiel took another slow step. "Sam will be fine," he soothed again. "What are you hearing, Dean?"

The man flinched sharply, and put his hands to his ears, even as he gripped the knife.

Sam began to move forward, but his angel threw out his arm to prevent it. He turned to glare. He did not like being kept from his brother when the man was so clearly hurt.

"What are you hearing, Dean?" the gruff voice said with caution and patience.

"It wants me to hurt him," he whispered. His voice was so low, Sam had to strain to hear. "Cas, you gotta get me out. The devil trap won't be enough. I tried, but I can walk right in or out of it. I drank down a liter of holy water. It isn't working."

Sam's heart ached. "Dean," he breathed.

The hunter's head snapped up and he moved to lunge at Sam with the knife. "Get away!" he screamed.

Castiel's hand was immediately on Dean's arm, while Sam took a wild step backward. "Dean, no!" the Angel barked. "You won't hurt him."

Dean crumbled back against the wall. "It's Sammy, it's Sammy, it's Sammy," he sobbed.

Castiel waved Sam back a few more feet. "Dean, yes. It's Sam. No matter what you're hearing, it's Sam with me, and you won't hurt him."

"Cas, get me out of here. Please."

"Dean, tell me. Now. What are you hearing?"

"It wants me to kill him!" He screamed the words in a voice that did not even sound human to his younger brother. "It won't stop! Tried to find something else-it wants him!"

Sam took a breath. The newspaper. The duffle. Dean was trying to find something to hunt. Something other than Sam.

"He did this. He took it from me. Gave it to Crowley. It doesn't want anything else. I've tried every other weapon I've got. It won't let me rest till I've got it back."

"It's all right, Dean. It's all right. You won't hurt him."

"I can't stop it."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Cas," he hissed quietly. "His arm."

Castiel looked at Dean's Mark, then traced this skin to the fresh knife cut mirroring it on the other side. "Dean. Did you call for Crowley?"

Sam sucked in his breath through his teeth.

"I hear you, Sammy," the man whispered. "I hear you. You're just making it angry."

"Dean-"

"Cas thinks this is a game. He's playing with your life, little brother. He's supposed to love you, but when it comes down to it, he will always choose to protect me. Like a good little soldier."

Sam stared at him in shock. Who was this speaking? Not Dean, his brother, but not the demon either.

"A hammer. Daddy's blunt little instrument. The grunt, expendable, doing what he's told. No original thoughts of his own. He will always do what he's told, even when it means he's risking you." A malicious laugh poured out of Dean's sneering mouth. "He will never move against me for you, Sammy, and that is just the truth. Supposed to love you, but he can't give up the only guy who will still tell him what to do, the one who makes him worth something. Daddy's blunt little instrument," he spat again. "He's nothing without me, Sammy. So when the time comes, you better be ready to take me on yourself. The grunt doesn't have the stomach for it."

Castiel stepped back as Dean stood and moved forward again, this time slowly. "Sam. Please back away from here."

He stared in horror. "He isn't a demon, Cas! He's just delusional! Why aren't you knocking him the hell out? Something is really wrong with him!"

"Please, Sam. The Mark wants something to kill, and it can't kill me. Just stay back. I need to know..."

Dean barked out a laugh then. "How far I'll go, Cas? That what you want to know? Because it's the freaking Mark of Cain, bitch. It wants brother blood. It's first love was brother blood. My damn Blade's first meal was brother blood." He finally turned his eyes to glare at Sam. "You think it can't smell you wherever you are? You think this grunt is going to save you? He will always choose me. I give him purpose. I feed his most basic needs. I tell him what to do."

The younger man swallowed hard. When he spoke, it was with a sad, confident tone. "He isn't talking about you, Cas."

"I know." At last, the angel's hand snapped out to grab Dean's arm, and pull him to his own chest. Dean roared, and his knife slashed into Castiel 's flesh, but he simply held him and placed gentle fingers on the man's forehead. Dean slumped to the ground with a thud, and the angry red Mark dimmed in intensity.

Sam let out a breath loudly. "Jesus! Cas, what the hell?"

"The Mark is causing him to dissociate, Sam. Not completely. But his mind...He thinks he is hearing the demon, or the Mark itself. He is speaking on behalf of the Mark."

He shook his head, and stooped to touch his brother's face. "Grunt. That's what he called himself, back in the trials. Said he should be the one because he was only a grunt. Expendable, I guess, like a mindless brute. I guess he's always felt that way." He looked up then. "He wasn't talking about you."

Castiel smiled sadly. "Dean and I...we were always...but no. He was projecting those thoughts. I know that. I'll get him to bed. And this time, I will ensure that he does not wake up for many hours."

"I'm scared for him, Castiel."

The angel lifted the man's heft with ease. "As am I. But I think for now he will be all right. His mind is trying to reconcile everything that is happening to him. It is a human's way of coping. It will pass. And he's wrong. In the end, he would not have hurt you. Because he is still Dean."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. You are in no danger until the moment he ceases to be Dean."

Sam followed him into the bedroom wearily, and watched as his brother was placed in the bed again. He took note of the bloody bowl on the floor, and sighed. "So? What will it take? To turn him again?"

Castiel stared down at the man on the bed for a long time, then spoke as if in a dream. "I don't know, Sam. I told him I didn't think the Mark could take him without the Blade."

"Do you really think that?"

"No," he whispered. "But I won't tell him that. Sam, the Mark may not be able to turn him alone, but it will break him. You saw him struggling against what it was trying to make him do. And he's contacted Crowley. I hope he did not get any help from that corner. The Mark is twisting his mind, making him believe..."

"A liter of holy water. It's making him think he's already turning."

The dark head nodded. "And if he believes it, he will try to force my hand. Just now, a part of him was trying to force me to act. To destroy him. He's goading me, trying to make me prove that I will protect you from him, by killing him. Because he thinks it's already too late."

Sam forced a raspy voice from his lips. "Is it?" he asked breathlessly.

"No, Sam. But we will need to be very careful. We don't want to lose him completely."

His throat tightened sharply. "I don't want to lose him at all, Cas." He knew what he sounded like. But he did not care. His brother was in pain, and every moment of knowing it was agony. "How do I help him?"

"Let him know you aren't afraid of him."

This voice was so quiet he was not sure Castiel would hear. "I am afraid of him."

"You should be."

***


	6. Now I Lay You Down to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into the bedrooms of Sam and Dean Winchester.

Bright blue eyes and silky black feathers, sweet pink mouth and messy dark hair, soft pale skin and delicious white teeth. Castiel was a biter.

Sam reveled in his angel's attention. He drank in his scent, ran his hands ceaselessly through the wings. Every nip from those teeth sent his skin thrilling with pleasure. It seemed Castiel intended to repeat last night's performance, but was replacing most of his kisses with nips and tastes. It had Sam so far on edge that he had to stop him when he reached the hunter's sensitive stomach.

"Cas," he gasped. "Cas, you've got to stop. Wait. Just let me catch my breath, okay? Jesus, you don't want me to jump you, you gotta slow down."

The blue eyes were blown wide with lust when they met his gaze. The intensity of it nearly sent Sam over the cliff by itself. "I want to taste you," he explained softly, hungrily.

Sam laughed while pulling in his breath. "I can tell. Never would have expected biting from you," he teased fondly.

Castiel moved his fingers gently across Sam's stomach, and watched curiously as it shuddered. "I don't know." He gave a happy sigh, and reached down to run his tongue over the same spot.

Sam's stomach tightened, and his breath sucked in sharply. "Jesus. You're not being fair."

"Is that a particularly sensitive place for you?"

The mask of innocence in the blue gaze did not completely cover the mischief beneath. Sam glared at him. "I'm ticklish, you jerk."

"I don't think that's all there is to it," Castiel accused. He lowered his teeth to nip at the vulnerable patch of skin.

The hunter drew in his breath again, and this time, he was unable to keep from arching up toward the angel's mouth. He heard the satisfaction in Castiel's soft chuckle. "Cas," he panted out, "you're killing me, man."

The angel sighed with contentment. "I'll stop if you want me to. But every time I bite, you grip my wings. It's hard to believe you aren't enjoying it at least a little." He lifted up to bare his teeth against Sam's throat. "Do you want me to stop?" he offered in a whisper.

"Dammit. You know I don't want you to stop."

He could feel the smile on his skin just below his ear. "I'm glad, Sam. I do like to taste you."

Sam heard himself moan obscenely when the lips closed over his earlobe. The sound of Castiel's mouth on him sent waves of pleasure through his whole body. He was becoming painfully hard, and Castiel had not even brushed a feather below his waist yet.

"Cas," he hissed.

"Sam? It is getting near time for me to check on him again."

The man closed his eyes. Guilt seeped into him now, poisoning the pleasure. "Yeah. Go. Just...if he's fine, please hurry back."

Castiel placed a sweet kiss on his lips. Sam could not help opening into the kiss, inviting his angel into his warmth. Reluctantly, Castiel pulled himself to stand. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Sam nodded, and Castiel left the room with a smile.

Dean was lying in what amounted to an angel-induced celestial coma, and there was Sam enjoying his lover like nothing was going on. The guilt made him flinch, and he was suddenly cold. He pulled blankets over his nakedness, but his eyes fluttered closed as the sheet encountered his swollen erection. He prayed the angel would hurry.

***

 

Taunting yellow eyes and scorched ash wings, mocking blood-red mouth and burning brown hair, seared blackened flesh and hungry orange flames. The fire licked at every inch of his skin.

Dean screamed his brothers' names. Even as the agony of his own melting tissue and muscle crescendoed, more pain came from seeing Sam and Castiel burning than from his own flame-licked flesh. Then there was Benny and Adam, Garth and Kevin, Ash and Victor, Ronald and Tiny, and poor, poor Chuck, Henry, John and Bobby, and every other he had failed along the way, all burning and writhing in a Hell of his own making. He saw every damned soul he had tortured, heard every one begging. He saw every ounce of pain in the eyes of Richie and Andy and every other man who had not deserved it, even as he madly flayed the skin from their bones.

He could not stop.

Castiel's gruff rumble and Crowley's velvet drawl were coaxing him. He could no longer tell which voice was which.

"This is what you truly are. The monster you never got around to hunting. This is who you've always been. It's what you're supposed to be. Every bone you break, every breath you take, this demon is stalking you. It is making you what you're supposed to be."

Dean's eyes narrowed sharply. "No. I am the demon. I control it."

The laugh was Abbadon's, but it crawled in hitched, stop-action movement from Castiel's lips, and spoke with Crowley's voice. "That's rich, you darling ape. You? You think you're in control?" He gestured grandly toward Cole, strapped onto the rack before him. "This is you in control?"

Dean's eyes squeezed tight, but the eyelids were melting off in the flames, and he could hide the visions no more. "I won't do this."

Castiel snapped his fingers and what was left of Cole evaporated with a sickening pop. Then he himself climbed up onto the rack, still grinning Crowley's nasty grin and laughing with Abbadon's cackle.

But it wasn't Abbadon, was it?

"Cain," he snarled. "Cain, you bastard. You did this to me."

"And it is exactly what you wanted, Dean. You wanted to skip the fine print. You wanted to kill your Knight. You did that. What did you think was going to happen?"

Dean stared at Crowley's smirk on Castiel's face. "Not this," he croaked hoarsely.

"What's wrong, Dean? Are you thirsty? It's what happens in Hell. But it isn't water you want, boy. It's blood."

"No."

"Afraid so. And it isn't just any blood. You know what kind you need."

Dean felt tears streaming down his face, sizzling in the heat. "Brother blood," he choked.

Castiel-Crowley-Cain smiled sympathetically at him. "That's right, son. Brother blood. It's the only kind that will truly sate your thirst. I so loved my brother that I killed him to save his soul, cursed myself for all time. And now it's your turn, Dean. If you love your brother, if you loved any of these brothers, you'll rip them apart and save their souls. You'll wash yourself in their pure blood, and you'll never be clean of it. The last will be sweet Sammy, your true brother, the one who trusts you most. Save his soul, Dean. Kill him before he has to kill you."

Dean's eyes flew open in a white hot panic. He flung himself out of the bed, and vomited, again and again. Blood spurted from his lips, spraying his floor and hands.

Blood on his hands. Always. Never clean of it.

And Castiel was there, not the surreal hybrid, but the warm angel-brother he truly was. When he spoke, it was his own voice, or at least the one Dean could perceive and understand, and there was no cruel mocking in it.

"Come on, Dean. Let's get you back to bed. I'll clean you up."

"Never be clean again," he rasped out.

Castiel sighed. "You and your brother," he murmured wearily. "He said to me only days ago, Dean is a good man, and he deserves to die clean."

Dean's eyes screwed tight in agony. He felt Castiel lifting him into the bed. He could do nothing but accept the help. "I deserve to die," he repeated in a parody of Sam's words.

"No, Dean. You deserve to be saved. You always have. And I will save you."

"Save Sam," he argued softly. "It's all that means anything anymore. Just save Sam. The demon blood, Cas. Is it all out of him?"

"It is, Dean. The Stone of Qafben has leeched it all from him."

He nodded, then opened his eyes again. "Qafben. What does that mean?"

Castiel sighed and sat on the bed beside him. "Son of Castiel. Qafsiel is an ancient name of mine. Ben refers to son."

The words slammed into his heart like a hammer. Dean let loose a wail, and before he knew it, he was curled into Castiel and weeping madly.

The angel sighed again, and held him without speaking.

After many minutes, Dean lifted his head to drop it back onto the pillow. "Ben refers to son," he breathed with an eerie calm, full of raw, sharp pain. His voice was cool, sad and resigned. "I want to sleep, Cas. Can you make me sleep? And not dream?"

He wanted badly to end that differently. He wanted with every remaining throb of his exhausted heart to not say "dream," but to say, "wake up" instead. But he knew better than to think Castiel was ready to give him that.

"Of course, Dean. If you wake before I return, just call for me. I'll hear you."

The familiar cool touch to his forehead let darkness rush over him once again.

***

Castiel sighed sadly. His hand waved away the sick and blood, and cleaned his friend of sweat and tears. "Dean, you and your brother were always going to be the death of me. I knew it the moment I laid my hand on you in Hell. I gripped you tight, and Death gave me a whispered promise that my end would come from saving you. He's been right more times that I can count, and yet I stubbornly love you both. I gripped your shoulder, I closed my hands over Sam's, and in those moments, I was lost. Everything that I have, everything I have ever been, belongs to two men who think they don't deserve it."

He stood and stretched his wings to their fullest extent, feeling the quiet rush of his Grace filling the room. Enochian snicked through the air, and landed like a blanket over Dean's trembling form. The man's tension melted away, and for the first time in a very long time, Castiel could see that his friend, his human-brother, was at peace.

"Sleep, Dean, and if you dream, dream only of being worth saving."

He padded softly out of the room, removing his tie as he did so. He placed the tie with an amused smile over the doorknob to Sam's bedroom, then slipped inside, determined to show another Winchester just how deserving he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a bonus chapter included in the Before 200 series which is meant to show what happens in Sam's bedroom between Chapters 6 and 7 of Wingman. It's called That Night When They Did That Thing (Part 3 of Before 200). It isn't necessary to read it in order to continue Wingman, but for those readers who might enjoy the extra scene, please check it out.


	7. Boys are Back in Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweaters and coffee, and talk of memories, while Dean sleeps the day away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Sastiel Warning-Okay, that's as fluffy as it gets for me, people.  
> For Chuck's sake, they're clothes shopping. What do you want from me?
> 
> There is now an "Eye of the Tiger" type bonus chapter included in the Before 200 series which is meant to show what happens in Sam's bedroom between Chapters 6 and 7 of Wingman. It's called That Night When They Did That Thing (Part 3 of Before 200). It isn't necessary to read it in order to continue Wingman, but for those readers who might enjoy the extra scene, please check it out.

Castiel raised an eyebrow at Sam's attire. Perhaps this outing was more important than he thought if Sam had worn the fed suit. Or at least part of the fed suit. The jacket and white shirt, open at the collar, and jeans. Perhaps they were investigating something while they were out. He rather doubted the latter. Sam had been firm in his resolve to take time off, even as Castiel guessed it was as difficult for him to do so as Dean. The two would have made their garrison commander crazy with their lack of patience. It was just as well they were not angels.

As Sam approached, Castiel felt a small smile spreading as he wondered what type of angel they might have been. Dean could have been a soldier, though he had a great deal of difficulty with authority. Would Sam have been a scribe? Perhaps. Maybe Sam would have been a throne. He could have dispensed wisdom and judgement. Who better than he who still, after all that had happened to him, felt so clearly the line between right and wrong? That is, when not being manipulated by lesser beings or when Dean was in danger...Perhaps not a throne. But clearly, the man would have been something far greater than he. Something untouchable and unique and breathtaking, blindingly powerful. Something righteous.

Castiel watched as Sam flinched and ducked to avoid slamming his head on an overhanging sign.

He sighed. Perhaps something which required more Grace than gracefulness.

Sam looked up at the storefronts along the sidewalk with suspicion, then smiled as he caught sight of Castiel. "Hey!"

"Hello, Sam. You seem almost surprised to see me."

The man laughed quietly. "No, I just...Cas, you have to admit, in all the time we've known you, you've rarely been where we expected you to be."

"I am always where I am needed to be." Then he gave Sam a small snort. "Or where I will cause the most disruption."

"Yeah, how is Heaven?"

"Kindly stop talking, Sam.”

“You wanted just the opposite last night,” he whispered, moving in to stand closer to the angel. “Wanted me to keep saying something; what was it?” he teased in a low voice, even though the street was nearly deserted.

“If you’re referring to speaking my name, it was a critical component in the magic I was using.”

Sam grinned. “Right. Just for the magic, huh. You know, most couples manage to have sex without the glowing lights and Enochian spellwork.”

Castiel smirked with a smugness he had rarely felt before. “And you admitted you never wanted anything else once we had finished. I take that to mean that everything I did was not only correct, but better than what most couples enjoy. You cannot pretend with me. I can sense how our time together is still affecting your hormone level even now. I suspect I’ll never need to remind you to say my name again.”

The hunter burst into laughter. "Well, you're full of holy conceit today!"

He shrugged, the smile softening. "Perhaps. It could have something to do with every personal desire and hopeless dream, which has manifested in my heart over the past few years as a wholly unrequited love suffocated under bitter repression and tormented self-loathing, at last inexplicably culminating in an utterly undeserved reciprocation and the incomprehensible satisfaction of possessing the unmatchable and stunning Sam Winchester."

Sam stared at him. "What?" he breathed.

Castiel took his hand in his own briefly. "You heard me. I said I'm happy."

The hunter's lips twitched into a smile. "Cas, I never, ever want you to think of me loving you as underserved reciprocation."

He stroked his thumb over Sam's large hand, then gently let it fall away. "I will never be able to think of it in any other way. I apologize if that isn't how you would prefer it. Shall we eat?" He frowned suddenly. "Or was there something else you planned? Are we meeting someone?" He gestured to the suit.

Long fingers tugged at the jacket collar anxiously. "No, I..." He cleared his throat. "I wanted to look nice, but not too formal. Other than this suit's slacks, all I own are jeans, cargoes and sweats."

Castiel chuckled. "And I have worn the same suit for most of the time you've known me."

"About that. I was thinking, before we eat..." Sam nodded toward one of the store fronts. "Want to try?"

Castiel looked into the window, and realized the cafe Sam had suggested was conspicuously adjacent to a men's clothing shop. "Ah. All right. I would be happy to try anything you'd like."

Sam smiled shyly. "Yeah. I don't know. I got a pair of jeans there once; it's nicer stuff than I usually wear, but for you...I thought..."

The angel reached to open the door. "I assume you have currency. Mine has become depleted."

"I'll cover it. Get whatever you like." Sam followed him happily, like a very large puppy.

"Sam, it makes the most sense for you to pick out something you like. I have no opinion."

This proved to be entirely untrue. Over the next half hour, Sam made a dozen suggestions which were rejected outright. They selected two pairs of comfortable jeans in a style similar to those the brothers favored, and a pair of black boots, but there the easy part ended. Castiel shook his head, rolled his eyes or sighed dramatically over every shirt Sam pointed out to him. Finally, Sam dropped down onto a couch by the fitting room and brooded over his phone while Castiel wandered in search of inspiration.

At last, the angel smiled. He changed in the fitting room and emerged to tap Sam on the shoulder. He looked up wearily, then mirrored the smile. "Yeah," he said softly. "I like that."

Castiel purchased two basic black tee shirts, one fitted black hoodie, a casual button-down and the dark blue v-neck sweater that had made Sam lick his lips that way. He folded his trench and suit into the bag and left the store in jeans, boots, the button-down and the sweater. It was oddly freeing. And he enjoyed the way Sam ran his hands over the soft material on his back. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a domestic cat.

By the time they were seated at the cafe, Castiel felt perfectly happy. For the first time in what felt like years, he was not worried about Dean, at least not for the present day. He had used enough juice, as the hunters would say, to knock the man out for two days. He was sleeping peacefully in the most protected sanctuary on the planet.

Today was just for Sam.

He sat back in his chair and looked around them. His wings fluttered with unexpected and illogical pride when he realized both men and women were glancing at his companion with appreciation. He wanted on one hand to stand back and show off his lover to the world, and on the other hand to hide him jealously from the view of any other. Did others feel this way about their mates?

Sam spoke in a whisper. "Everyone stares at you. Everywhere. Does it bother you?"

Castiel met the soft hazel gaze with surprise. "At me? No, Sam. I've spent enough time with the strange force of nature that is your brother's charisma to know when my presence is completely superfluous. These people are watching you. And I find no fault in their taste."

A flush of pink filled Sam's cheeks. "I think you're projecting, Angel," he laughed nervously. "Okay, are you going to eat?"

He studied the man's anxious expression, and the way he rubbed his hands on his denim-clad thighs. "No. I'll order a coffee. The waitresses seem to leave me be when I do that. Sam, are you...are you feeling well?"

Another nervous chuckle escaped Sam's lips. "Of course."

"Sam?"

His tongue painted his lips wet. "It's...it's just nerves, Cas," he admitted, embarrassment plain on his face.

"But we have eaten together many times, Sam."

"Yeah? How many times have we eaten together in public, just us? No Dean."

Castiel thought for a moment. "I'm not sure."

"Yeah. Almost never. And I've never been good at...God, Cas, this is like...If we were normal people, this would be a date."

The dark eyebrows leapt to attention. "I see. But we are still just Sam and Castiel. Being in public makes no real difference. I understand that affection and touch is minimized while among others. But otherwise, is there anything different about our interactions?"

Sam took a breath. "No. You're right. I've never...done this with a guy. I mean, I've never been good at this with girls; Dean will tell you that."

"Dean has told me that."

This time the flush extended even to Sam's ears. "Yeah, well, he's a jackass."

The waitress approached them with a tired smile. "Hi, guys. I'm April. Can I start you with some coffee?"

"I'll take a black coffee..." Castiel frowned suddenly. "Do you have black tea?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Honey. Do you have that too?"

Sam was watching him.

"Yup! And you sir?"

"A red eye. Thanks." Sam reached tentatively across the table for Castiel's hand as she walked away. "Tea with honey?"

He smiled, lowering his gaze to their hands. "As I said. I'm happy."

"I'm glad, Cas. I never thought we'd be here, you know."

"You chose the cafe."

"No. Here. Together. Like this." He nodded at their locked hands. When he laughed, it was easier than before. "It's strange to think I'm the only one who can see your wings. It's so amazing. They're just...there!"

"They've always been there, Sam."

"I know. But now I can see them as you're just sitting there. The strangest is when someone walks through them. They don't even feel them. Do you feel it when that happens? In a crowd, when someone brushes through them?"

"I've ignored it for so long, I barely notice it anymore. But I can feel it. Yes."

Sam shook his head in wonder. "It's so strange," he said again.

"The only time it actually feels like they are being touched is with you. Otherwise it is simply...as a human, I sometimes felt a shiver, a chill. It is like that. But with you, you are truly able to touch them. I don't know why you can. But I've come to like it very much. It's been...a very long time."

Sam smiled happily. "I never thought we'd be here," he repeated to himself.

"Sam, I'm very content. I don't know how to say it. I like how this feels."

The calloused hand squeezed Castiel's long fingers. "I will never be able to go back, Cas. You know that, right?" Hazel hid beneath strands of brown for a moment, as Sam flushed again. "Ever. You're it for me, Cas. I've been in love before. But not like this. And I know with all my heart that you're the last love I'll ever have. You're my last chance. I can't ever go back to what we were before. So...if this doesn't last? I understand. But I can't pretend I won't be broken after you."

"Sam, please. We have not been honest with one another for a full week yet. Please don't think about it ending already."

Sam spread his fingers wide, then slipped both hands into his lap. "Cas, I will do anything to keep it from ending. You know that, man. I just can't help...Nothing good has ever stayed good. You know?"

Castiel nodded sadly. "I know, Sam. I'm sorry. If you are still afraid, it's my failing. I should be able to make you feel safe. I'm so sorry, Sam." He smiled weakly. "It seems being in love with a guardian angel is worth very little if he is so faulty he cannot make you feel guarded."

Their drinks arrived before Sam could speak. Castiel thanked the waitress kindly, then set to work stirring honey into his tea. His heart was not in the task anymore. Honey should be enjoyed with a complete dedication, with a true appreciation for the work that was spent in its making. The sick feeling he got from knowing he was failing in his most basic priority, in the task which should have come as easily as flight for any true guardian celestial, was spoiling his ability to give the honey the credit it deserved. "Make him feel safe," Dean had said. Even before he had said it to him, Castiel had heard Dean praying to him, giving him his assignment. "Make him feel safe." Castiel looked into his tea and sighed.

"Hey."

He licked his lips but did not raise his eyes.

"Hey. I said hey."

"You did. Twice."

Sam was smirking. Castiel could hear it. "Listen, you moody freak. I love you, and I feel completely and utterly safe with you. I just mean that the universe itself has us on its hit list. Deny that if you can.”

“I can’t,” the angel sighed, staring into his tea. “But no matter what else comes at us, Sam, we will face it together. I can’t promise either of us is truly safe forever, nor would you believe me if I tried. But us, you and I, we are safe.” At last, the blue eyes raised to meet his lover’s. “Sam, you will never be hurt because you allowed me to love you. I mean to protect your heart and soul with the same ferocity I would protect every other part of you.”

“Cas, you know the same is true for me. Right? I mean, you’re like Dean in that way. You think it’s your job to protect me, and maybe that’s how you’ll always feel, but I hope you know I would do anything for you.”

The angel felt his wings flutter with the return of his happiness. “You’ve done so much for me, Sam.” He looked into the eyes he had seen just the night before blown with lust, looked at the body he had poured his Grace and love over in waves, in floods, back at the bunker. He fixed his stare on the mouth he had worshipped, and he grasped the hard, strong hands that had caressed his wings and his body with such reverence and filled him with such ecstasy. The black wings rippled with pleasure at the memory, and chose, without him bidding them to do so, to wrap around the angel and his hunter, creating a space just for the two of them in the noisy cafe. 

Sam squeezed Castiel’s hands lovingly. “Cas, you’re beautiful, you know that?”

The blue eyes stared with uncloaked desire. “I may be the least among the angels, Sam Winchester, but I am the most fortunate of all beings. And that is my Father’s truth.”

“Drink your honey tea, Angel,” Sam coaxed softly. “And then tell me some stories.”

The wings drifted off to their proper place, and Castiel sighed happily. “What do you want to know, Sam?”

The man sat back with his coffee and thought for a moment. “What is your first memory?”

“You. Last night.”

Sam’s flush was gorgeous. “It is not. What really?”

“You last night is every memory I ever want to have. But I do have others,” he conceded with a laugh. “I suppose the first thing I remember is…” He lowered his eyes again.

“Is it a painful memory?” Sam whispered.

“No. No, not at all. That is, it shouldn’t be. My first memory is of a brother’s voice.”

“Which one?”

The angel smiled even as he felt his heart aching. “Balthazar. I suppose we were created in the same instant, but he was already humming by the time I awoke.”

“Humming?”

“His Grace was humming. And he…he was laughing. The first music ever to touch me was Balthazar’s Grace and his laugh. It was before Michael had disciplined us to smooth out our wings and our emotions, had broken us of needs, wants and mischief.”

“Some of you retained your mischief, Cas. You and Balthazar, for example.”

The left corner of Castiel’s pink mouth lifted with the irony. “Yes, well, you would not have been able to get us to show it when an inspection or inquisition came along. Michael was…intimidating. We loved him for everything he was, but we learned not to ruffle a single feather in his presence. He never spoke a word to us personally, but there was no doubt in our minds that he would forgive no weakness from even the lowliest foot soldier. So any mischief we made was between ourselves and before we were forged into true soldiers over millennia. Balthazar’s laugh…”

“Cas, when you did what you did…”

“I know. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. Sam, I don’t need you to soothe my guilt. I don’t want that. But it would help me to talk about him sometimes. About all of them. Uriel, my brother through so many countless missions. My sisters, murdered by his hands. All of them, on all sides of every war I’ve fought. Every one who killed for me, every one I killed.” He smiled at Sam with love seeping from his eyes in a single tear. “Thank you. For listening to my stories. It seems a very human thing to do. But it helps to think they are not forgotten. I am a veteran of a million battles in a thousand wars. I have lost so much, so many. Angels aren’t meant to feel loss the way you do. I’ve never been able to help it. I will tell you their war stories if you like, but I think I’d rather tell you about the moments which we were never supposed to have.”

Sam’s face was soft, his eyes welcoming. “You mean those things you didn’t want Michael seeing.”

Castiel laughed quietly. “Those are the best memories.”


	8. Who Died and Made You Dean?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam each dream, and voices from their past speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid: Digger asks Dean who died and made him queen. It makes me giggle every time I think about it. Hence the title for this chapter.

Dean sat in the last booth in the joint, by himself. His eyes hurt. He rubbed them wearily, and when he opened them again, he was startled to find himself staring into Death's eyes.

"Hello again, Dean," the entity murmured.

Dean's breath caught in his throat until his lungs burned with it. He felt a small trembling begin at the base of his spine.

Death slurped at his soda and raised his burrito to his mouth. He chewed contentedly for a moment while Dean recovered somewhat from his shock.

The hunter swallowed hard, finding his throat terribly dry. "Hello again, sir."

Death watched him passively.

"Have I managed to piss you off again somehow? It's because I came back again, isn't it? I mean, Sammy, he wasn't quite gone yet when I inserted the angel, but I was a complete doorknob when Crowley woke me up. Look, it wasn't my idea-"

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean sighed.

"Can you imagine even for a moment what it must be like for me?"

"I'm pretty sure the answer is going to be no."

Death took another sip. "A human, mind you. In the evolutionary grand scale in this universe, a human is barely a multicellular pest. Viruses are more advanced than you are." He eyed Dean with his weary annoyance. "A human with the most irritating insistence on falling into my realm again and again, then snaking his way out every time, and for what? So that you can now prod that same little arrogant angel you once called on me to destroy to now kill you."

The man licked his dry lips. "It isn't like that."

"No? Dean, there was one particular Tuesday in which seven of my subordinates were forced to drop everything else just to reap you every few minutes. Two had to be reassigned altogether after that day of frustration. Every time your soul was on their radar, they went to retrieve it only to find it snatched back by that infuriating child that calls himself Archangel."

"Called. Gabriel is dead."

Death's eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you trying to tell me you know more about who and what is dead than I do?"

Dean cringed. "'Course not."

"So you cause my reapers years of frustration only to now try to spur soul-chomping angel to kill you. How dare you?"

His heart was pounding. "I'm afraid of the Mark. I can't be that again."

"Then don't. Clean up your messes, Dean." Death popped the last of his burrito into his mouth, sipped the last of his drink, then stood. "By the by, tell your soul-chomper to get his facts straight too. Ask him if he ever actually saw Balthazar's wings burn out. I'm utterly uninterested in his guilt over the whole matter, but he continues to spread untruths regarding my work. It is irritating." He wiped his hands on his napkin, as if brushing away any residual opinion about events beneath him. "Wake up, Dean."

A sharp, painful breath filled his lungs, and he shot up in bed, only to be dropped immediately by the force of his headache. He gave a wail of suffering, and curled into a ball on the mattress.

After some time spent cradling his head, Dean slowly pulled himself to sit on the edge of the bed. He glanced at his phone briefly.

"Holy crap. I've been asleep..." He did some quick mental math, as well as he could considering how fuzzy events were before he had slept. "Sixteen hours. Crap."

Dean stood weakly and stumbled to his bathroom sink. He splashed water onto his face, and slowly went through the motions of taking care of his body's needs. Once he had cleaned and dressed, he slipped out the door to trip into the living area of the bunker. He sat hard on a couch.

It was then that he realized he was not alone in the room.

Castiel raised a finger to his lips.

Dean could not help but smile. Sam was sprawled across the couch, with his head in the angel's lap, clinging to a blue sweater-clad arm happily, while a deep snore escaped his nose. His hair was wild, and Castiel was busy stroking it away from his face.

"He had a good day," Castiel whispered.

"I'm glad, Cas. And thank you." He heaved a sigh, and let the grogginess close his eyes, let his head fall into his hands. "I'm really sorry, Cas. For everything."

"I know," the angel whispered. "It's all right."

"It's not all right. I've been laying into you, and you're the only one still trying to help me and my brother. I don't know why I keep lashing out at you."

Castiel calmly, lovingly, continued brushing Sam's hair through his fingers. "It's because I'm the only one still trying to help you," he stated. "And a large part of you does not want to be helped."

Dean opened his eyes and with great effort, he lifted his head. "I remember bits of what I said to you yesterday. I'm really sorry," he said again.

"It's all right, Dean. I know what you were doing."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. But I told you. I will not kill you until we cannot save you."

Dean nodded. "I know. I'm sorry."

Castiel gingerly lifted Sam's body from the couch, and went to place him in bed. Then he returned to sit across from Dean.

"For the final time, Dean," he said with blue determination in his eyes, "we are not grunts. Nor hammers. Nor mindless blunt instruments. Neither of us. We followed orders when we believed in a just commander and we refused when the commands stopped making sense. You once told me after drinking that you put yourself between Sam and your father on countless occasions, that you refused to place missions above the safety of your family, chose to save Sam even when it meant a monster or demon ran to safety. I myself? I fell, Dean. For you. Nothing has been more clear in my life than the consequences of disobedience, yet I let myself be thrown from the gates for it, because following Dean Winchester made more sense to me than the twisted orders I received in revelation. We are stubborn, defiant, arrogant, and often quite wrong. But we have done everything good or evil in our lives of our own free will. We are not mindless brutes, you and I. The world would be a very different place right now if we were."

A small smile crept onto Dean's face. He put a hand onto the back of Castiel's neck and gripped. Then he patted the angel's face gently and stood. "Cas, you're awesome. I'm glad you're the monster my brother fell for."

Castiel stood too, rolling his eyes. "I'm an angel, you ass."

Dean laughed quietly. "So? What's the plan then? You just keep knocking me unconscious for days at a time, till the Mark gets so frustrated it slithers off my arm to go bother someone else?"

"I don't think that could happen, Dean."

Dean smirked at him, then padded toward the kitchen. "So what then? It wants Sammy, Cas. I don't know if it really is the brother thing or if it's pissed about him giving up the Blade, or if it just knows me killing him would crush me-I don't know. But it wants him, and I can feel it every moment of every day."

Castiel frowned. "I've considered attempting to take on the Mark myself, in the way I took your brother's pain so long ago. But the Mark is meant for a human, and even if I could..."

The hunter sighed. "Nobody wants a juiced up angel wearing the Mark of freaking Cain."

Castiel shrugged sadly. "Anger management is not something either of us excel with. And if I'm honest, there are a few of my own brothers who might satisfy the Mark's requirements. Metatron still lives, after all."

"Can't say anyone would blame you for that one."

"And that's how it begins with me, Dean. Feeling justified."

"I know, man. Thanks anyway."

"The ideal situation might be to find Cain and make him take it back."

"And I've thought of that too. But I don't know if the Mark would even go back. Cain kept it leashed in a way I never could. I don't know how he did it. But it doesn't want him anymore. And anyway, if he doesn't want to be found, something tells me a little location spell isn't going to smoke him out."

"Probably not."

Dean frowned suddenly and stopped in his food preparation. "Cas?"

"Yes, Dean."

"I had a dream just before I woke up. It was Death. I can't remember much. But He was...trying to tell me something. A message for you."

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Death is hardly my greatest fan, Dean. I imagine if he ever truly appeared to you, the only message he would have for me would be an Enochian aspersion too scornful to have a translation."

"No, no. It was that you're wrong about something."

"I imagine Death thinks I'm wrong about most things."

Dean shook his head. "Something..."

"Dean, it was a dream. Death does not take time from his schedule to enter the heads of humans."

He took a deep breath and went back to keeping his hands busy. "Anyway, he did tell me to clean up my own mess. Just wish he had eluded as to how."

Castiel perched on the stool, and Dean smiled to himself. He needed action, and badly. But this domestic life...there was something to be said for his angel buddy having a usual spot. He had come to think of that as Castiel's stool, the place where Castiel sat to watch him cook. He and Sam had not established such perimeters, but Castiel was a creature of habit. It was like having a cat around the place, who chose his spots and watched his people from them.

Something about it was nice. Normal.

Which meant, of course, that all hell was about to break loose.

Dean sighed.

***

Sam could still hear his father's words echoing long after his eyes had opened. He sat up with a smile, and pushed himself from the bed. He was still dressed from his outing with Castiel, so he simply removed the fed shirt and replaced it with a plaid one over his tee.

His mind was racing.

He knew what to do. It was a matter of making Dean do it.

"No time," his father whispered. "No excuses. Dean's hurt, and bad, son. You gotta run now. Run, and don't stop. Don't look back, don't stop for anything. Ain't got time to be afraid. Just run."

It wasn't a dream, he realized, but a memory he had not let surface in years. Dean with his guts bloody and seeping through his skin. John fending off the vengeful spirit, protecting his son but unable to tend to him. Giving orders to Sam, telling him how to save his brother.

Sam had run. At seventeen, his legs had finally started growing, and he was quick. His heart had pounded in his throat, screaming his brother's name over and over. Get to the grave. Finish the job. It's already dug, already begun, just finish it. Just run, and don't look back. Dad will help Dean as soon as he doesn't have to tangle with this spirit. Just get to the grave and finish the job. No excuses.

_You know the worst thing you can do to a guy in Hell, Sammy? Let him rest._

Dean's sabbatical was over. Time to run.

***


	9. There will be no hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's default is always to give everything of himself, but that is unacceptable to those who love him.

Castiel could hear the brothers arguing. For that matter, he could practically hear Sam thinking. As for Dean, it was more akin to a smell. A musk of anger coming off him in waves. Sam got so angry it was frightening sometimes, was capable of wrath Castiel had rarely witnessed in a rational human before. But Sam's mind worked with words. For better or worse, Sam always had snippets of a running narrative in his head. Too often, he felt something like anger, then reached out for justification of that feeling. It made him more dangerous than Dean, who simply let himself get angry and released that anger, then saw it dissipate, because he rarely bothered justifying it.

The result was that Dean often said and did things that were quite hurtful ( _Nobody cares that you're broken, Cas!_ ) but when the storm washed over, Dean could apologize or work to make things right again. Sam felt anger, but held onto it until he had justified it somehow, and once he had achieved that…Well, it nearly took an apocalypse to show him he had been wrong.

So this particular argument was par for the course. Castiel listened to the heated voices, felt the tension filling Sam, breathed in the fury floating from Dean. It was overwhelming his senses, as it often did. Lately, he had not been able, or inclined, to keep his emotions under wraps, but for a creature who understood his lifetime in geological terms, dealing with these emotions was still a very new challenge. Now that he had opened his heart to Sam, and bared his soul to Dean, there was no closing himself off from the volatility anymore.

"Hey! Halo! I'm talking to you!"

Castiel turned to Dean very slowly. He meant to glare at him, but found he lacked the strength.

Sam reacted immediately. "Jesus, Dean. Guy's exhausted, okay? Look at his wings."

Castiel closed his eyes and swallowed a lump of shame.

"I can't see his freaking wings, moron! I can see his face, and he obviously has an opinion. I want to hear it."

"Leave him alone. You're upsetting him!"

Castiel's pride forced him to speak over Sam's attempts to protect him. “My opinion, Dean? I’m of the opinion that you can both bite me. I don't have anything further to say about the whole thing." He turned and stalked to the bunker door. Since Sam's miracle had built for him a new Grace, he was unable to pass through the bunker warding without great pain. It made dramatic exits far less...climactic.

Once he had left the bunker, though, he had no will left to go further. He raised his wings in a defeated shrug, and found himself talking to someone he had not spoken directly to in a very long time.

"This what You had in mind?" he spat wearily. "Because I'm learning more about humor every day, but I still don't get the joke. There's a possibility that in all my millennia I've never considered before now. It would explain my brother Gabriel. Maybe all this time, the great _I Am_ , my beloved Father, maybe You are a trickster God."

He could hear the door punch shut behind him, and he could hear the raging anger mixing with confusion and doubt. That was how he knew it was Sam and not his human-brother who had followed him.

"Hello, Sam," he murmured sadly.

"I should have brought it up to you first."

A thin smile crossed Castiel's face. "You think so?"

"I didn't think you'd see a problem with it. It can't hurt you, right? Not as you are now!"

He wanted to turn toward Sam but there was no point. He knew the man, and he knew the hurt puppy eyes that would be looking back at him. As it was, he could feel them.

"There was a moment, long ago, or perhaps just yesterday, when you asked me what I thought of another idea you had. You were going to ice the Devil, Sam. You small, ant-like thing, you were going to trap my great and glorious brother in the only cage that could hold him."

“And we did. He's in the pit."

"A pit that did not eventually hold him. From the first revelations, from the beginning of times, we all knew that cage would not hold. No, Sam. The only cage that could hold that thing was you."

He heard Sam shuffle next to him, and he was quieter than before. He was no longer screaming inside his own head. He was waiting, listening.

"Sam Winchester, ant extraordinaire."

"Cas-"

He gazed up at the sky with a squint. "You know what's fascinating about ants? No matter their station in the colony, each is ready at any moment to sacrifice himself for the rest. Bees are the same."

"Cas, just listen-"

"I'm fond of bees, myself. And they are noble little things. But they lack something special, something that would make each one unique. I suppose it is why I am only fond of bees, but I fell in love with a human. The uniqueness of that particular human, the thing that makes him Sam instead of any of a billion bees or ants in any of a hundred million colonies."

Sam sighed. "Can I assume you don't like the idea?"

"Of course, since back when you were barely upright, humans could have benefited from some of the organizational skills of the hive animals."

"You're not going to even talk about it?"

Castiel stared fixedly at the sky. "Your wars are remarkably similar to those among ant colonies. It's what the Thirty Years War across Europe looked like to us, you know. Your First World War was actually very similar, with your trenches and tunnels. Some ant species even have fighter pilots, attacking by wing."

"I didn't know that," Sam stated blandly, leaning against the wall.

"You don't know everything that goes on in your world." Castiel's tone had become sharp. "You don't even know everything that goes on in the bunker."

"Do we have ants in the bunker?"

Finally, he shot an angry glower at his human. "Have I loved you for years or for days, Sam?" he snapped suddenly. "Eons or minutes?"

Confusion swept Sam's handsome features. He was shaking his head. "Cas, if you think it's wrong, we won't do it. I'll never ask you to do anything you don't feel comfortable with. I don't...I don't know what you're saying."

"Isn't it a simple enough thought? How about this one? How much do I love you? Your poets are so fond of that question. How much?"

Frustration was making Sam's eyes burn red around the edges. "Castiel, I don't know why you're angry with me. Dean, he's always angry. But what are you-"

Castiel threw his wings out to their full, intimidating height, and watched as Sam flinched against the wall. "How much...do I...love you?" His voice was very quiet, his eyes dangerously wide.

"Cas, I don't...Please. I'm sorry, okay?"

"It's simple, Sam! It's so damn simple that it hasn't even occurred to you! I've loved you eternally, and I love you with all that I am! There is nothing here-" he hissed, gesturing madly to himself, "-that is not love for you! So when you point out that your idea does not pose a threat to me, I'm not sure how you can say such a thing, unless you don't understand a thing about my love for you! So have I utterly, unforgivably failed to express it, or do you have such a skewed and twisted idea of what love is that you just can't fathom it in your little ant brain?"

Sam's chest was panting feverishly. His face was pulled tight in that way just before angry tears stole his control away. "Stop it. That's not fair." But it was a croak. "You can't say that. Not you. I know love. That's what this is all about, loving Dean. Don't you tell me I don't understand love."

The angel gave a bitter laugh. "Why would you? How could you? The only things that ever loved you, the only things who knew you and still loved you, have twisted everything you've ever felt for us into manipulation and control over you. Your father, Dean, Bobby, me. Name one other thing that has loved you for who you are. And we have each used your loyal heart, fed on the love you gave us, and spat it back as poison, which you gratefully drank. It's no wonder then that you think the way to save Cain is by handing him Abel!"

Tears flowed down Sam's cheeks, spilling down over his trembling lips. "I'll be fine!" He screamed the words into Castiel's face in a hurt rage. "You think I'm not strong enough-"

"And that's how we make our decisions, how we've always done things. We decide what to do based on whether the human I love is strong enough to break but not splinter under the consequences. No, Sam. I'm not willing to break you again. I weighed the choices when you asked if I thought you should say yes to Lucifer, and I answered as a soldier, tactically. I will not do that now. I loved you even then, but I was so broken myself that my love for you was buried and bloody under guilt and self-pity. My mind is clear now, and I'm done sacrificing you, even for a moment, to fix something else that your brother or I have screwed up. Even if it's Dean we need to fix.”

Sam’s chest filled and he glared into the sad blue eyes. “There’s no time. Dean’s hurt, and bad, Cas! There can’t be any excuses, and there’s no time to be afraid. Now you owe Dean your life a hundred times over, and so do I. He needs some relief from that thing that’s chewing him up on the inside. If it wants someone to chase, it can have me. I’m doing this whether you’re going to help me or not. And you know if you don’t, it’s going to end with Dean ripping out my heart. So that’ll be on you, not him. That thing wants me. I mean to give it what it wants. Even if it just lets him alone for a day, at least he’ll get some relief. You heard him. The only thing that will satisfy the Mark is brother blood. That’s me. So help me or don’t. I’m going to run, he’s going to chase me, and then that Mark is finally going to let my brother rest. There’s no excuse for weakness when my brother can’t rest.”

Castiel was shaking his head, his wings dropping slowly to his sides, weighing him down as though the feathers were made of lead. “Sam, you can’t think that letting him hunt you is going to bring him relief! He’d rather die. And if he can’t stop himself from doing it…Sam, he’ll want me to kill him if he feels himself wanting to hunt you. You saw him before.”

“And that’s why I can’t let him live like this! He’s not a demon, Cas! If he were…we know how to cure that. It’s that Mark; it’s got to hunt something. We can’t trust him on a job. I don’t even know if he could make himself stop anymore. He might hurt a civilian. I’ve researched, assessed and analyzed until I’m blue, and I can’t see nothing else. Can you?”

The angel closed his eyes. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

“Not permanently. But it might buy Dean some time.”

“And it might push him over the edge!” Castiel shouted suddenly.

Sam shoved past the angel, who watched him stomp several feet away. “I can’t do nothing. I can’t sit here safe while I watch my brother bleed out.”

“So your solution, as I understand it, is to give me permission to possess your vessel, and together we allow Dean to hunt and possibly damage you, and thereby relieve some of his Mark’s bloodlust. I heal you and we can all go home for hamburgers. That’s the plan?”

The human licked his lips. “You got something better?”

“Anything is better than that. Flying into Hell is better than that. Getting involved in a land war in Asia is better than that.”

Sam’s head tilted in confusion, but he said nothing.

“Sam, as much as you have been conditioned to think so over the past three decades, sacrificing yourself is not the solution to every problem.”

Finally, the man sank to the ground in exhaustion. “But it’s all I have to give, Cas,” he whimpered. “Unless I’ve given everything…”

Castiel sat beside him, and put a strong arm around his lover. “Sam, you know as well as I that there are a hundred ways that this plan of yours could go horribly wrong. And even if it plays out just as you imagine, you still end up hurt, even if I can heal you. Do you think it’s all right for me to burn a dog just because I intend to heal it after?”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about.”

A tender kiss pressed against the man’s forehead. “We’re not talking about anything, Sam. You are a brilliant man, and I have a great deal of respect for your courage and strength. But this is a stupid idea, and we will not be using it. So keep thinking.”

Sam nodded into Castiel’s chest, the tears drying on his face. “All right. I’m sorry. I just want to help him get some relief.”

“Hurting you is not a way your brother will find relief. He could hunt you, and the Mark could have your blood, over and over, every day, and it would never sate the Mark, never buy him peace. It would only push him ever further toward the edge. You know that.”

“I know,” Sam breathed.

Castiel helped him stand, and walked with him to the bunker door.

“Can I have a minute?”

The angel smiled wearily. “Sam, if you choose to do something stupid, I’ll find you within seconds. You know that.”

The human nodded, with a small smile. “Yeah. Desperate, but not stupid. Thanks.”

Castiel kissed him chastely on the cheek, and returned to the bunker’s claustrophobic interior. He listened for a moment to be sure Sam was not sprinting away from the building, then turned back to where he knew Dean was waiting for them just inside the door.

 “He all right?”

“He’s changed his mind,” Castiel explained briefly. “He knows it will solve nothing to allow himself to be hurt.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Then you agree.”

The blue eyes raised, and he gave his friend a smile. “Dean, Sam’s snatching for feathers in the wind.”

“We call that grasping at straws.”

“I imagine that’s the same thing.”

“If it means being frustrated as crap, and totally helpless, then yeah.”

“A drowning man will catch at a straw. Yes, I’ve heard that one. In any case, Sam is, as you say, frustrated and feels helpless. And his default response to you needing help…”

Dean growled softly. “Throw himself in the pit,” he muttered. “Yeah. I know. At least he suggested you go in to be ready to heal him. That’s gotta be the worst part, man. With Gadreel, I thought he was never going to forgive me. Here he is talking about being a vessel again…I just…” He closed his eyes tightly. “He never deserved any of this, Cas.”

“Neither of you did. But as I said, he’s changed his mind.”

The green gaze was on him again, as was a strong hand at his arm. “Yeah. You changed his mind. Thank you.” He sighed heavily. “Whenever I’m awake for more than a few hours, I start to lose it. Cas, if I wanted you to keep me asleep till the next apocalypse, could you do that?”

A small smile felt more like a grimace on his face. “At the current rate of frequency of our apocalypses, I would say there’s a distinct possibility that I could.”

Dean gave a soft laugh, and smacked Castiel’s arm fondly. “Yeah. Okay. That’s Plan B then.”

“Do we have a Plan A?”

His human-brother turned to wander back toward the library. “No. But we have a Plan C. And that one sucks for all of us. So let’s try to avoid that one, huh?”

“Yes, Dean.”

***

Sam swallowed with difficulty. Castiel was right. Dean was right. But he could not do nothing. He had been ready to be Dean’s hunt if that’s what he needed. But in his heart, he knew that would accomplish nothing. At most, it would give Dean only a moment of relief before the guilt and horror settled in. He could not do that to his brother. There would have to be something else.

He closed his eyes tightly. “Hannah? Can you hear me? I never tried to pray to another angel before. But Cas trusts you.”

A lovely face appeared before him suddenly. “You’re Sam. Castiel’s friend.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Uh, yeah. Wow, that…that was really fast.”

She gave him a small smile. “You caught me at a good time. We are between wars currently.”

Sam smiled back. He could see why Castiel liked her. They had met briefly on other occasions, but had never spoken directly. After all, she had been one of the ones who wanted Castiel to make an example out of Dean, to kill him. But Sam knew what it was like to want to be sure of an ally’s loyalty, and being disappointed when it could not be proved to satisfaction. “I’m glad of that,” he murmured. “We need a break down here.”

Her head tilted in a way that Castiel’s often did. “Did you need something, Sam? Is Castiel all right?”

“He’s…fine. A bit riled up, but he’ll live. No, I…I wanted to know…You know about the Mark of Cain, don’t you?”

She licked her lips carefully, and nodded. “Your brother is in possession of the Mark of Cain. We have not put it out on Heaven’s billboards, but yes. A very select few of us know about that. As a favor to Castiel, we have let him handle it himself.”

Sam took a breath. It had not occurred to him that Castiel had needed to ensure that angels did not come looking for the bearer of the Mark, but it made sense. A Knight of Hell was not something Heaven likely wanted walking the Earth. Cain had been too powerful to be found, but Dean? Hannah knew exactly where Dean was, but out of loyalty to Castiel, she had not sent soldiers down to smite the older Winchester. He would need to remember to thank his angel for this.

“Yeah. We’re handling it. But…I was hoping to speak to your armorer. See if there’s anything in the coffers up there that could help safely remove or neutralize the Mark, or at least buy us a little time.”

“Most of Heaven’s assets are meant to destroy, Sam.”

“Yeah. And some are meant to heal.” He raised his eyebrow at her and stared in a challenge.

She nodded. “All right, Sam. If the armorer is available to make a trip, if he has access to an appropriate vessel, I’ll have him meet with you. And in return, you please do something for me.”

Surprise widened Sam’s hazel eyes. “You need a favor?”

“Just a…personal kindness. From one friend of Castiel’s to another. Please, if he should ever need help, contact me. I will listen for you. I don’t know if he would call for me. Will you?”

Realization flooded him then, as she looked up at him with sad eyes. He caught his breath in his throat, then forced himself to nod. “Of course. I would never hesitate to get Castiel any help he needed.”

She nodded slowly, accepting this response. “Thank you. And I will speak to Balthazar.”

As she turned, Sam reached out to grab her arm. “Wait, what?”

She stared at his hand, until he let her go. “I said I would do as you requested, to speak with the armorer of Heaven.”

“Balthazar?”

“He has returned to his former post, as have many of our number. He was already on Earth during the Great Fall, so he experienced minimal injuries beyond that which had already been done to him.”

Sam’s mind raced mercilessly. “But…Castiel doesn’t know he’s alive! How is he alive?”

Hannah stared unblinking. “There is likely much Castiel does not know regarding Heaven. He choses to stay away in spite of our many requests.”

The hunter’s jaw clenched as a spark of anger filled him. “Yeah? Well, he’s got friends who trust him down here.”

“Friends who have often gotten him hurt, or killed, who have hunted him and betrayed him, and neglected him in his darkest days and loneliest nights. Yes. And he continues to choose you. That is not his failing. It is his virtue, that he becomes blind to recent trespasses and forgetful of past treachery. He forgives, essentially, all which is unforgivable.” Hannah’s blue eyes seared into his with the cold, calm anger of a true angel. “He will never not choose you.” With that, Sam heard her wings flutter and she was gone from his sight.

***


	10. No Way but Norway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is wrong about how to help Dean, but he is right that Castiel is weary.  
> The angel is feeling a bit lost as his two charges struggle against the Mark, which is intent upon crushing both brothers. So Sam requests some alone time with his angel.

"Cas?"

Sam had wandered around the whole bunker, before finally finding his angel sighing into the stale air in the laundry room. He frowned at him.

"Uh. You need me to help you wash your clothes?"

"I have done so myself before, Sam," he reminded him. "If I did need to do so, I would not require help."

Sam recalled how helpless Castiel had sometimes felt as a human. "Of course. I just mean...your mojo keeps you and your clothes clean without you even having to do anything. So why are you hiding in here?"

The stormy blue eyes raised slowly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was walking. And now I'm not."

It was one of the most oddly depressing things Sam had ever heard him say. "Come on. I'm sorry we argued before, okay? I know you're right. I want to go somewhere. Dean's asleep?"

The angel nodded quietly.

"He's as stable as he's going to get, then. Will you take me somewhere?"

"I will take you anywhere."

The hunter smiled at the quiet promise. "Okay. Let's go to the lake. Can we do that? Just for a little while?"

"Yes. Of course, Sam."

They walked back out of the bunker together, and Castiel took his hand. Once they were clear of the warding, they took another step but their feet hit ground 4,500 miles away. Sam sucked in his breath, stilling the dizziness, and smelled joy.

It was cheesy, and someone like Dean would never forgive how corny it was, but the air in this place was joy, to Sam.

Castiel turned to him with an expression that seemed to mix concern with desperation. "This is what you wanted?"

Sam's large hand covered Castiel's cheek, felt the rough stubble and the tense muscles. "Cas, before something changes again, before we get knocked on our asses next, I just want some time with you."

The blue eyes raised to break Sam's heart.

"Cas, what's wrong?"

His angel tried to smile, but gave up within a moment. "Sam, I'm...I am weary."

Without a word, Sam pulled Castiel's black hood over his dark hair, then pulled him to sit at the base of a tree. He wrapped his long limbs around him, and let his wings fall carelessly around them both. One arm cradled his angel's hooded head and the other hand stroked soft feathers warmly.

Castiel gave a great sigh.

Sam had already decided not to say anything to him about what Hannah had told him. For all he knew, he could have somehow misunderstood, and he did not want to do that to Castiel.

So he carded his fingers through black feathers, and began to speak softly. "Angel, are we ever going to get this right?"

The blue eyes closed briefly, then opened again with a smile hidden in them. "Sam, your brother once told me that cursed or not, it was worth it to have me on his side. I think that's how I feel about us."

Sam snickered quietly. "Are we cursed, Angel? That would explain a lot."

"I prefer to think that we have overcome the impossible and are still dealing with residual fallout."

"That makes it seem as though we are nearly done, Cas. We're never done."

"Is this an example of debate regarding the measure of liquid in a glass?"

Sam burst into laughter. The cool air around them was easing his anxiety. There was something about this place that seemed to pour peace into him one breath at a time. He hoped Castiel was feeling the same. His large hand focused on one feather, and he watched himself pulling it through his fingers. This single feather was over a foot long. “Cas? Teach me about your wings?”

The angel looked up at him in adoration. “Is there something you’d like to know?”

“Everything.”

He smiled, and his eyelids slipped closed. “That’s quite a bit.” 

“Are we in a hurry?”

“No. Dean will sleep. The first thing you should know is that you’re putting me as close to sleep as an angel ever gets with what you’re doing.”

For some reason, this gave Sam a flutter of happiness, and even a twinge of pride. After all, how many humans could say they had done what he was doing? “Yeah?”

Castiel startled in a tiny way, as though he had been brought back to wakefulness by Sam’s voice. “It feels good. For someone who did not live his whole life as a winged creature, you have a certain natural talent for turning an angel into a cooing lump.”

The laughter was quieter this time, but easier too. “Good to know. And why are some of your feathers different sizes? They obviously have different functions.”

“Yes. The one you are currently tormenting is a primary feather.”

“Tormenting?”

“It is more like taunting.”

The hunter frowned. “Is it hurting you?”

“Not at all. But it is creating a sort of whirlwind of sensory conflict. Most of my body and brain would like to curl into a nest with you, and the remaining parts would like to just pull your clothes off.”

The smile on Sam’s face was one of mischief, even as he voiced an apology. “You want me to stop?”

Castiel chuckled, eyes still closed. “Sam, if I wanted you to stop, I might have said so. My wings are very confused, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t enjoying what you are doing.”

Sam pushed his hand deeper into the wing. “Tell me more,” he said as he carded his fingers through the thick wings.

“Just above there are my coverts. And where the wing meets the back, it is covered in scapular feathers.”

“Do you…like…molt?”

The eyes opened finally, and he looked up into Sam’s blush. “Of course. An angel will lose his feathers twice in a decade, and in times of great anxiety.”

“So it isn’t about the seasons? Like a bird?”

Castiel smiled. “Sam? Have you been researching wings?”

A deep red flushed across his face and chest, and his ears were burning hot. “It’s what I do, Cas. Man of Letters and all that.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you aren’t hunting me.”

“It isn’t like that!” he protested awkwardly. “I don’t mean to…I just want to know more about you, and about how to…you know…”

“I never know, Sam” came the quiet, gravel voice.

“How to be good to you,” he whispered. “How to take care of you.”

The smile he received was worth the embarrassment of having been caught trying to teach himself angel physiology. “And what have you discovered, Sam?”

He shrugged shyly. “That I need to ask you. Turns out, nobody’s ever written a book on molting angels.”

Castiel laughed. “I suppose they haven’t. No, the molt is not seasonal exactly. It is a timed renewal. It takes about a week to ten days, according to your calendar, and can be quite frustrating. My last true molt was before we met.”

“What do you mean true molt?”

Finally, he sat up next to Sam, and held onto the large hand. “Twice a decade,” he repeated. “Or in times of great anxiety.”

Sam frowned. “So…You’ve been in like a constant state of molting since you met us?”

The laugh was genuine, but there were bitter undertones. “Not constant. My wings were damaged while retrieving Dean from Hell. When I was cast out, I went through the most uncomfortable molt I’ve ever felt, and I was terrified it would not eventually grow in that time. It did, but then after attempting to rescue Adam from Zachariah, I was no longer able even to feel them. When I woke up in that hospital bed, I knew I had to get up and move, but I wasn’t able to…”

Sam gripped his hand, chewing on his lip in silence.

“Imagine awakening to find you had no legs.” He shook his head, and the hood slipped down to reveal his dark hair beneath. “I had to get to you and Dean, to help you. I don’t want to think of what Pestilence might have done to you if I had not forced myself to move. But part of me wanted nothing more than to die in that human hospital, where no one knew what I was supposed to be. Where I was the man who had conquered brain damage, not the angel who had lost his wings.”

“Cas, I’m so sorry.”

“It was horrible. I had to relearn how to use my vessel all over again, probably would not have survived at all if it weren’t for Jimmy. He was a constant guide. It was the first time since taking him again from his family that I convened with him. He was…forgiving. Kind. I knew he was still bitter with me, but he seemed to have determined that what I was doing was just, and that he was proud of his role in it. So he nudged me, helped me relearn my balance in the body, without my wings.”

“You never told me all this.”

Castiel smiled sadly. “When did we ever have time? In any case, Jimmy was not with me long after that. He had been fading since our resurrection after my first encounter with Raphael. Then Lucifer’s destruction of the vessel left it empty completely, and Jimmy was reaped to Heaven. But before that, he helped me. And he forgave me. He may have been the first in my long life to give me that gift. It is something I will never forget to be grateful for.”

“I love you, Angel.”

The wings fluttered as he surged forward, upward into Sam’s mouth. Sam caught him in his arms. For a moment, there was nothing else, only the lake and Castiel’s lips, the wind and his wings. He grabbed a handful of feathers, and used them to tug Castiel even closer to him. A small noise breathed out of the angel’s mouth into his, and he could not help but feel satisfied by it.

When at last they parted, Castiel raised himself up to his knees. “I’m not sure what you want to know about wings,” he said simply.

“Everything,” Sam sighed again. “Everything.”

Castiel licked his pink lips carefully. Then he reached up to squirm out of his black hoodie. It was a strange vision that made Sam’s brain protest when the clothing slipped past the wings as though they were not even there. When the tee shirt came off as well, the brain seemed to shut off entirely, and left Sam a panting, slack-jawed mess. He had seen Castiel like this only once before, in the dark, and he was still recovering from that night. His heart and body reacted to the beautiful pale skin and glorious black feathers, made him whimper softly.

But the angel turned so that his back was to Sam, and he sat again. The boots and jeans were still mercifully hiding the rest of him, and Sam was able to force his brain to function after a moment of staring. Seeing Castiel this way in the shaded daylight was nearly painful. It was Sam’s definition of beauty. He watched as the angel flexed his back muscles and spread the wings out to their fullest extension, exposing them for Sam’s scrutiny. He had never had the opportunity to just stare at the wings before, the way they slotted into Castiel’s back, the variation in the blue black feathers.

“They’re amazing,” he breathed happily. “Castiel, you are beautiful.”

The dark head lowered, and the tips of his feathers were trembling very slightly.

It occurred to Sam that this was quite new for Castiel as well, being examined in this way. He placed his hand on the small of his back, where the down faded into soft skin. He could feel the angel’s shaking increase. Two long legs spread on either side of Castiel, and without much thought as to what he was doing, Sam pulled off his own shirts to press his chest against the bare back. The wings reacted to his skin with excited twitches. Sam lowered his head down into the scapulars, feeling their warmth and strength, and his hands slid around Castiel’s small waist to settle on his chest and belly. Castiel’s head tilted to the side, his body leaned back into Sam’s.

“Sam, my wings are not beautiful,” Castiel sighed. Sam detected a note of shame in the low, gruff voice. “It is only that you can see them, and you have never seen another angel’s wings. My wings are those of a warrior. They are made for agility, for speed, for balance in melee. They’re nothing like those of a scribe or an archangel. Even among other soldiers, mine are…plain and utilitarian. To look at Anna’s, for example…Well, you would know that mine are actually quite…The best word would perhaps be unmemorable."

Sam held him tighter. "That's completely untrue."

"Sam, you have had very little exposure to angel wings. I have seen some which would bring tears to a human's eyes. Lucifer's, when in his prime during the Great War, could have seared the heart of an angel with a simple gesture. We were literally warned of his beauty, for those of us who had not seen him before were vulnerable to the glory of his wings. I? Sam, I am the least among them. As I attempt to be completely honest with you, you should know…"

"Cas? I love your wings. And you love that I love them."

Sam could feel the chest flushing with heat. "More than you can ever know. Pride is an ugly sin, and I have ever been its greatest sinner."

Sam snuggled his face into the wings. "Yeah. Well, a bitch I used to run with killed Pride years ago, and we exorcised his buddies. So screw that."

"I'm sure that was simply the demonic embodiment of the sin, Sam, since I still suffer from it."

"You're beautiful, Cas. And it isn't just the vessel. Your wings are...they're you, Cas."

The angel was smiling when he turned in Sam's grasp. "Sam? I love you. I don't know why I'm compelled to say it again and again. Perhaps because I have yet to find a better way to say it. Something that means...more."

"It means everything, Cas."

"Sam? May I use my Grace on you?"

The hunter laughed quietly. "Cas, you've been healing every paper cut Dean and I get for the past ten days. What could possibly still need healing?"

Castiel shook his head, then burrowed it into the man's chest. "Grace is meant for more than healing, Sam. May I?"

"Of course," Sam murmured in confusion. "But what-"

His tongue froze mid-sentence as a light began radiating from his angel, enveloping him. He heard a happy sigh from Castiel, but he was completely overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure flooding his every nerve. His mind went silent with it, every brain cell redirected toward the experience of ecstasy beyond anything he had ever felt. His eyes were open-he knew they were, but he could see only white light and blue streaks like lightening. A stray thought skittered through his mind, as he wondered if his heart would stop, before he realized he did not care. The pleasure was so intense that it was painful, and after moments of trying his hardest to withstand it, he was forced to put his hand up to Castiel’s face, a silent bid for mercy.

The light faded slowly, instead of dropping him immediately, became a low hum in his nerves. He could feel that he had orgasmed, untouched, and yet was clean in spite of that. As the light released him, he sank to the ground, every muscle pulsing and trembling, tears streaming down his face. “Cas,” he breathed. It was the only thing he could think, let alone speak, the last word left in his shuddering brain. His extremities were throbbing, stinging, and yet it felt good all the same. Amazing, really.

The blue eyes were searching his face when his own finally focused again. “Did it hurt you, Sam?” The timidity in the rough voice touched Sam’s heart.

“No, I…” He was panting. Sam gulped in a breath and tried to slow his racing heart. “No, Cas, that was…What was that?”

Castiel looked at him with such intense adoration, brushed over with the most delicate shyness, that Sam thought his heart would burst. “That’s my Grace, Sam. That’s what my Grace is when I’m happy.” He searched Sam’s eyes, biting into his lip in a very human way. “It is…I suppose it is the opposite of a smiting.”

Sam could still feel a metallic-tasting sting in his jaw, and his hands would not stop shaking. “Christ, Angel! You’re freaking potent!”

“Have I hurt you?”

“Hurt? No. But, god, I can’t even move my legs!” He shook his head, which lay back in the grass. “What was that? Two minutes?”

“Four seconds,” Castiel corrected softly.

“Four freaking seconds, man. That was the most intense four seconds of my life. That’s just you being happy?”

His angel nodded, and the shyness barely masked the pleasure in his eyes. “Mostly. But sometimes I’m reminded how much I love you, and I badly want to make you feel my Grace. I’m not sure why. Instinct, I suppose. I wanted to touch you desperately, to let my Grace take hold of you. I did not realize it would overwhelm you. I’m sorry.”

Sam breathed the cool air for a moment. Then he smiled stupidly. “Don’t you ever apologize for what you just did to me. That was incredible.”

“May I again?”

“Whoa!” Sam’s hand flew up again in protest. “Not right now! Give a guy a minute to rest! We’ve got to figure out how to rein it in a little bit, or I will have the most enjoyable heart attack in the history of men. Not saying it isn’t how I’d like to die, but maybe not today, okay? Maybe you could ease into it, not do it all at once?”

Castiel’s shy smile brightened his eyes. “I can do that,” he promised. He leaned down to kiss Sam’s lips softly. “I’ve never wanted to extend my Grace in that way with anyone before. But you…I’ve ached to do that since I walked out of Purgatory.”

“Castiel, if that is you just quietly happy, I’m not sure I can handle much more. And, Cas? How am I ever going to be able to reciprocate something like that? That’s a favor I cannot possibly return.” His hand lingered on his angel’s face, stroking it languidly.

The angel leaned in to the touch. “I don’t think you understand how you make me feel, Sam. What you just felt? That’s nothing compared with the feeling of you accepting me and my Grace.”

Something about the words punched Sam in the heart. “Accepting you?”

A flash of pain crossed the angel’s face, but he continued to smile. “I have ever been alone, even surrounded by my brethren. I was loved, and I loved, but there was always something about me that was…unacceptable. My garrison brothers and sisters were my family. We flew together for so many eons. But I never knew them and they never understood me. Not the way I feel you do. They knew everything about me. But you know me better, and you accept me in a way no one ever has. The things Naomi and the others tried to correct in me, the various reasons I disappointed Uriel and Anna, you know those things and love me anyway. In spite of everything.”

“Because of everything,” Sam whispered to him. “I don’t overlook your faults, Castiel. I love each of them.”

The adoration in his angel’s eyes would have blown him over had he not already been lying prone on the ground. “My Grace, that which you made for me, has never had such…potency as you said. What you felt, I feel every time you touch me, like my Grace is reverberating, originating perhaps, from you. Sam Winchester, you are everything I was never supposed to feel. If I can share four seconds of that with you once in a while, it would make me very happy to do it.”

Sam lifted his head to indulge in another angel kiss. He knew they would have to go back soon, to check on Dean and to spend another afternoon and evening researching a way to help him. But for just a moment, he could pretend that everything was right in the world, that Dean just slept peacefully, and that no horror was creeping up on them as he pressed his lips into his angel’s.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who leave comments! I truly appreciate them, and I try to respond to them all!


	11. Staccato a Legato...Marcato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staccato: Detached  
> Legato: Bound  
> Marcato...Marked
> 
> Castiel's past catches up to him.

It was two nights later that Castiel's ears picked up a strange frequency. He frowned and rose from the bed, cringing as he realized Sam's fingers were tangled in his feathers in a vice grip. He yanked it away, heard the man grumble a complaint, and watched him grasp at the blanket instead. Then the angel crept out of the room and down the hall to leave the bunker. He felt for Dean's presence, but he could hear the snoring even before his Grace located him.

He proceeded out of the bunker as quietly as the great door would allow. Instinct had brought his blade to his hands before leaving Sam's room, without him consciously aware of it. It was cold and true in his hand, a companion as disciplined and effective at its job as the soldier who carried it. His wrist and deft fingers flicked it around in a circle, feeling the balance, and trusting his sure dexterity. The blade was not his original, but it was identical in every way, and he knew its feel better than he knew this vessel's face. If there was anything Castiel would never need to doubt, it was his ability with a blade.

He scented the air, flaring his nostrils, and listened to both the quiet night and the buzzing chatter he could now hear from the Host outside the bunker. Something very familiar was close by. He could not identify the sweet, clean smell or the rhythmic hum, but it was an angel. There was an angel near the bunker, one that he did not know but who seemed to make his Grace ache with nostalgia. The scent, like honey mead and-

Castiel felt his blade slip from his hand and clatter to the ground below. He closed his eyes, a wave of emotion overwhelming his whole system.

"Myrrh," he breathed in a strangled voice. The scent was sweet honey mead and myrrh.

"Hello, Castiel."

His eyes refused to open.

"Surprise," the awkward laugh said behind him.

A noise like a bird in a panicked free fall strained from his throat.

He could feel the hand on his arm, and it was like an electric shock through his whole body. At last, his blue eyes obeyed him, and one quick movement found him staring face to face with the object of his greatest betrayal.

"Balthazar," he cried.

It was the same vessel he remembered from years ago, during the Civil War. The one Castiel had stabbed with his confident blade hand.

"How?" he croaked out.

Balthazar smiled weakly. "Not without great difficulty," he admitted. "You left me for dead, you bastard."

Castiel sucked breath into his lungs. "Brother," he whispered, "I think about that moment every day."

At first, his old friend was silent. Then he raised his hand, which held a glass of dark liquid. "Cheers, Castiel. To eons of laughs behind the backs of our commanders, to our glorious battles of old, and to the ridiculous and passionate way we managed to screw one another when last we met."

It was too much. The emotions were crippling him. His wings burst out in an attempt to steady the body, which was spiraling toward the ground.

Balthazar's strong hand grabbed him to slow his fall, and lowered him gently. "Easy, brother."

Blue eyes awash in sadness looked up at him. "Balthazar," he whispered. "I have to know. How did you fight in the time of the Great Fall?"

The angel sipped at his tumbler quietly while Castiel stared. "I was unable to do much," he responded. "My Grace was quite damaged, blown from my vessel, in fact, by an old garrison buddy of mine."

Castiel cringed, and dropped his eyes.

Then the voice softened. "But when I heard about you, Cas...We are brothers. We always will be, and of course I did what I could to help you."

Castiel's wings trembled badly, but he did not care. "You betrayed me before..."

"Everyone who loved you betrayed you then because what you were doing was wrong. And I'm the last to care about it all, but I couldn't stand to see what it would do to you."

"I could not let Rafael begin the apocalypse again. Not after what the humans had gone through to stop it the first time. I couldn't."

There was an eye roll as Balthazar sat beside him on the ground. "Yes. The hairless apes. I like pets as much as anyone, Cassie, but-"

"They're my friends, Balthazar."

"As am I, Castiel." He sighed. "In any case, it is your boyfriend who called for me."

His eyebrows shot up. "Sam?"

Balthazar waved his hand impatiently. "As if I can even tell them apart. He wants a treatment for the bloody Mark of Cain. Thought I'd have one up my sleeve somewhere, just waiting for this moment."

"And do you?"

The grin on the angel's face was nearly blinding. "Of course."

***

There was something very different about Balthazar. It took far longer than it should have for Castiel to place it, not until they had all gathered around the bunker library table to talk. When he saw the scars on his brother's hand, his wings fluttered out in unhappy surprise.

Dean did not move, but Sam and Balthazar both turned to stare at him. Castiel stood and moved toward his old friend slowly. "You...you're not..."

The smile was slow. "Ah. Yes, there you are, Cassie."

Sam was frowning. "What's going on?"

"But your wings! And I can hear your humming!"

Balthazar lifted his glass, which had been refilled from Dean's stock. "A pair of souvenirs and an echo, brother."

Castiel flinched. "You...Brother, how? You did not survive my attack."

Dean's eyes narrowed to tiny green slits. "What are you talking about? He's right there!"

"He isn't," Castiel groaned in a whine that made Sam move to his side in concern. "Not all of him."

Balthazar licked his lips carefully, tasting the whiskey in appreciation. "Come on, Castiel. Give me a bit of credit. It was all I could do to patch this much back together!"

"Who did it?" It was a demand, nearly an accusation.

The smile was constant. "It seems, dear Cas, that we have each exasperated Death Himself. Quite an accomplishment. You never do anything small, do you?"

Dean was shaking his head. "Okay. For those in the back of the class?"

"He's...as I was after I rebelled. Not human, but less angel."

"Elegantly put, Castiel. Death came to me personally, as he does for very few. He simply rolled his eyes and told me to clean up my messes, and the next thing I knew, I was in in Hong Kong nursing the most impressive of hangovers."

It was Dean who reacted first. He laughed quietly. "Clean up your messes. What did _you_ do?"

The blond angel waved his glass about vaguely. "Oh, something about leaving loose nukes around the world in a way which might prove irritating to his reapers. It seems human death on a biblical scale is..." Balthazar wiggled two fingers in a mocking gesture of quotation. "Stressful."

Castiel saw Sam glaring at his old friend. "And you've collected your cache, brother?"

"I have. Everything you did not use against Raf, I had scattered in holes around Earth, until things settled down back home. Your lovely friend Metatron might have enjoyed some of my toys, after all. And you had chosen not to use them before, against Raf, so I knew you would not want them to use against Metatron." He turned to Sam and winked. "Something about not wanting to wipe off the Earth the very apes he was trying to save, blah blah blah. Cas is ever a difficult general, never willing to allow for collateral damage on a worldwide scale."

Sam smirked. "Imagine that."

"And they have been safely returned to Heaven?"

Balthazar glanced at his brother in exasperation. "Yes, Cassie. And before you ask why I didn't let you know I was alive, let me remind you of both who sent me to the Reaper to begin with, and my general, tried-and-proven policy regarding grabbing something valuable and faking my own death. It turns out however that our old friend Yahoel was among the warriors tasked with finding those who did not wish to be found, and he had learned of the apparent exaggeration of my demise. Even those partial angels such as myself are unable to hide from such a tracker. Joel hauled me back on Hannah's behalf. Besides, it seemed to be in my best interest to come in out of the cold as long as universal amnesty was being offered to rogues from every conflict but that of Lucifer's original fall. Didn't think that chance would open up again anytime soon."

"Wise," Castiel grumbled.

"Clearly," Balthazar snapped back. "So tell me why you choose to remain here among the same human pets you stabbed me with one of our killing blades for consorting with?"

Dean and Sam met one another's gaze, then turned to Castiel in silence. He could tell without looking that the hunters were each reaching subtly for his weapon. Castiel raised his hand to still theirs. "It's a fair question," he allowed.

“Holy hell! Of course it’s a fair question!” Balthazar growled. He threw back the rest of his drink, then stood to square his shoulders with Castiel. “I fought alongside you our whole lives, Castiel. You killed me when I helped these men. Then I learn that you gave up an entire army of angels against Metatron to save one of them, who had betrayed you yet again, by killing one of ours against your command. I suppose it’s difficult for me to understand. You said something about a Judas in your midst, Castiel?” He gestured toward the hunters, who were clutching at their weapons. “Are they not the ones who should have died on your blade? A hundred times or more? I allied with you against Virgil, who took my place as weapons keeper, whom I had never bonded with but whom I had known and taught since the humans called me Hephaestus. I was the one who stood at your side in more battles than we could even count. I was there at your first pub brawl, when you single-handedly shamed the Odinson; for Father’s sake, Cas, I nearly lost a wing to toss him back to you when he tried to escape before you’d finished with him. We drank together, we fought together, we served together, and we rebelled together. Together, Castiel! Everything I did, I did because you had done it first!” The blond head shook, and the eyes crinkled closed. The anger was completely wrung out of him, leaving only grief behind. “These men can never even know how many nights we spent just watching the cosmos together, telling stories and laughing when no one else could see. Yet they remain your friends, and deserve your protection and forgiveness, but not I, your own brother. Just tell me why.”

Castiel lifted his chin as he found himself unable to speak. He could see Sam holding his brother’s shoulder down, keeping him from rising to his angel-brother’s defense. Castiel appreciated both Dean’s protective nature and Sam’s prudence. He cleared his throat. “You are right,” he said gruffly. “Balthazar, you are right. I just hope you can remember all those nights we spent, all those battles we fought as honorable soldiers side by side, when I ask you to think of how deeply I was cut by your betrayal. These hunters are men, trying to protect their people. Their actions are always in defense of humanity, and they are never given the advantages we have of a bird’s eye view and the knowledge of Heaven and the Host. You knew me, and you knew what was at stake. Perhaps I went too far, but you did not go far enough. And you must know how deeply that cut. No killing blade could do me so much damage as you had done.”

Balthazar was nodding, and watching his brother’s eyes. Finally, he gave a weak smile. “Ah. Well, then, shall we be even?”

A sharp breath exhaled from Castiel beyond his will. He knew his wings were spreading in relief, expressing a thousand emotions in a single flutter. He could see from his brother’s eyes that it had not gone unnoticed. “You are my brother, and I love you. I am sorry for all that has come between us, and I am grateful for the chance to try again.”

The blond angel sniffed, and Castiel could see the tremor in his own beautiful wings. “Yes, well, you always were a serious sort.” He whirled on the humans, startling them. “Did Cassie ever tell you about the time he was assigned to follow a bloke named George around, and he became inconsolable when the ape chose to slay a dragon?”

Even as relief was cooling over him, embarrassment was yet flushing his skin. “It was not for the sake of the dragon that I…” He glowered at his brother. “I had become fond of the horse which was killed in the battle. He was a greater loss than was the gain of the whiny female acquired in the process.”

Sam was smiling at him, he knew, but he could not bring himself to look at him.

“So you cried over the horse?” Dean said in his rough drawl.

Castiel turned to him slowly. “It was a good horse.”

Balthazar laughed. “Cas has been ever partial to his pets,” he explained pointedly. “And as such, I believe we have some business to conduct? Something about a tattoo your human has acquired, Castiel?”

Dean growled audibly, and Castiel sighed.


	12. Love, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Castiel seem to never get a moment of rest.
> 
> A desperate prayer goes out to a friend.

Once the other angel had smirked at Castiel and disappeared from the ground outside the bunker, Sam took his angel’s hand. Dean lowered his eyes, and stalked into their lair without a word. “Are you all right?” Sam whispered, leaning his head down to peer into the weary blue eyes. “Cas, are you all right?”

“You knew he was alive?”

The hunter licked his lips. “Not exactly. I spoke to Hannah, asked for Heaven’s help with Dean.”

“I had already-“

“Cas, please. Don’t be angry with me for that. I told you I was out of options. If you weren’t going to let me…I needed to keep looking. She said she would send Balthazar to respond to my questions. Until I was sure she meant…you know…him, I wanted to wait to tell you. I didn’t mean for you to get ambushed like that.”

“Ambushed. That hardly describes it.” The eyes were cast down to the dirt.

Sam sighed, and stepped back to watch his angel. Castiel was slouched as always, but his wings seemed to hang too heavily from him. His dark sweatshirt only served to emphasize just how pale his skin was. Like a doll. The man reached for him, lifting his chin with a tenderness he rarely had any use for in his life. “Cas, I’m sorry.”

There came a smile that did not reach the blue eyes. “It’s all right, Sam. I’m so glad he’s all right. Not all right, but…but alive. I’m grateful we could talk again. He and I were close once, perhaps similar to the way I am close to Dean now. He was my first friend, Balthazar. But he doesn’t know me anymore. And that is not his fault, nor is it mine. I will always love him, Sam, but I cannot…Things will never be as they were. Nothing will ever be the same. I have bled out every remaining part of me, everything that was ever Castiel of the past. All that remains is the guilt and the weariness.”

“You’re more than that,” Sam choked breathlessly. He was filled with a profound grief, and he sought in Castiel’s eyes a sign of hope.

When it came, it was in the form of a true smile. “I am. Because of you.”

“Cas? I don’t understand something.”

The angel laughed quietly, and lowered his gaze again. “That’s all right. I don’t understand anything.”

Sam kissed his forehead, and began leading him out toward the trees aimlessly, their fingers intertwined. “Why can I see your wings, but not Hannah’s or Balthazar’s? I didn’t even realize it until you mentioned his when we were all sitting at the table. I’ve become…” He chuckled to himself. “Well, I’ve become as accustomed to seeing yours as I imagine I’ll ever be. But I can’t see the others’?”

“I’m sure it has to do with what you did for me back at Harlan Lake, Sam. My wings embody my Grace.”

“I thought your Grace was stored…in your throat.”

This laugh was lighter, and it made Sam smile even as he blushed under it. “No. That’s where it can be extracted,” the angel corrected. “But it streams through me just as your blood does you. And my wings host it. You built my Grace, Sam, so it is no wonder that you can see it, feel it. The Grace of other angels…that’s not yours.”

Sam’s blush extended to his ears. “Cas, have you met me? I’m six feet of klutz and four inches of finesse. There’s nothing graceful that’s mine.”

“I am,” his angel breathed, and he stood on his toes to kiss him softly on the lips.

The hunter embraced the touch, was grateful for it. He had been afraid Castiel would be angry with him, for not telling him what he knew. Relief poured through him as he ducked his head and parted his lips to invite Castiel in. His calloused fingers moved to cup the angel’s face, his thumbs brushing lightly along the jaw. Sam inhaled the delicious, heady musk, filled himself with it while Castiel greedily licked at his lips, tasting what Sam could give him. There was a hand in his hair, and another at his waist. One of his own hands slipped down to Castiel’s hip, and pulled him flush against him. It forced him to lean down even further to close the distance between their lips, but it felt so good to have his angel tight against him, so close he could smell the oil in his wings, so close he could hear his Grace thrumming. His whole body shivered suddenly, and the involuntary movement and its corresponding tiny gasp made Castiel even hungrier for his mouth. The hand in his hair tightened into a fist, and Sam’s dark eyes opened just in time to see black wings thrusting out in a powerful gesture of arousal, pushing the angel even closer against him. His own body reacted accordingly.

Before he could utter even a whimper, however, there came a sound which was so out of place within this moment of serenity that he and Castiel each leapt back and took a defensive stance. Sam knew Castiel’s blade was in his hand, and he gripped his knife in his own, searching the trees around them.

He heard the sneer in his angel’s voice. “Can you smell it?”

Sam frowned tightly. “No. I hear it.”

Castiel was shaking his head in Sam’s peripheral. The two of them circled very slowly, until their backs were turned to one another.

 “What is it, Cas?”

“Something is here. I smell it.”

Sam cursed softly, and tapped Castiel’s shoulder, inching him closer. He could feel the warmth of the wings behind him, and judged their distance from each other to be as close as they could get without hindering one another’s ability to fight. His eyes searched the air and the ground, flicking side to side. A great dread was flowing over him like a pervasive smoke. “What do you smell?”

“What do you hear?”

The hunter flinched at the tone in his comrade’s voice, as well as the fear in his own. “Dripping,” he choked out. “There’s no water near here. And that isn’t water.”

“No,” Castiel confirmed quietly. “No, that is not water. It is something far more pungent, and far more dangerous.”

“Cas?”

The angel seemed to growl, in a rage that surprised Sam. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

When the voice responded, hearing it made Sam gag. He could not have explained, even to himself, whence the feeling came, but nevertheless, it clearly was a result of the voice. His stomach lurched.

“I have no need to show you anything, Angel,” the sickening sound cooed back.

Suddenly, Castiel was holding his head. He let out a piercing cry, like a hurt bird of prey, and fell to his knees in agony.  
 At the same time, Sam began to vomit uncontrollably.

“You see,” the horrible, disembodied voice was saying, “humans only hear the stories of the petty, pitiful cousins of mine who foretell death with their screams. No one tells my story.”

Sam found himself on the ground, holding himself up by his weakening arms, heaving bile. Behind him, Castiel was still shrieking.

“Lukøje, you want them out of the way while you’re working. I call this out of your way.”

Another voice spoke now, a crisp, sweet, low voice. “Yes. Unfortunately, _ven_ , I cannot actually enter their home without their invitation, can I? In the future, you’ll allow me to speak first.”

“Of course.”

Lukøje sighed.

Sam could not determine the location of either of these voices, and he was beginning to think he would be unconscious soon anyway. Castiel was grabbing at his arm, and pulling him. But before he could blink them out of harm’s way, another set of hands fell upon each of them, and they were yanked apart from one another mercilessly. “Cas!” Sam croaked.

Another horrible, birdlike scream was ripped out of Castiel’s throat, and the sound of it made Sam tremble.

“Hannah,” he whispered. “Hear me now. Get Dean. Please, Hannah. Dean! Tell him _banshee_ ; tell him _Lukøje_.”

It was all he could do before he crumbled into unconsciousness, Castiel’s agony searing into his mind as everything went black.

***

The angel closed her eyes, and let the prayer come to her. It was a personal prayer, addressed directly to her, and that did not happen often. She could not remember the last time a prayer had been sent for her ears only. So it should not have surprised her to hear Sam Winchester’s desperate plea. In fact, if she had been asked to name the human she least expected to call for her, it might have been he who loved her friend Castiel. On the other hand, what other human might have even thought to call to her?

She opened her eyes and licked her vessel’s lips softly. She willed herself to the area outside the Men of Letters bunker, and looked around her. There was no movement anywhere, which confused her, as she had been sure that was where the prayer had originated.

Hannah took a deep breath, and her nose caught at an unpleasant, distant smell. She narrowed her eyes. Banshee, Sam had said, but that smell…

She wondered what the protocol was in this case. After a moment’s hesitation, she banged firmly on the door to the bunker, then again even harder.

“Forget your key-" a snide voice began as the door opened.

Then Dean Winchester stepped back defensively. “You.”

Hannah’s eyebrow raised slightly. “Hello again.”

“Wait. You’re…Are you Hannah?”

“We’ve met.”

Dean’s green eyes rolled angrily. “Damn right we’ve met. You wanted Cas to kill me.”

“And now I come with a message from him. That is, a message from Sam.” She repeated the words Sam had asked her to say. “Does this mean something to you?”

Dean stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying my brother prayed to you?”

“He did. He seemed quite urgent that I contact you with those words.”

“I know what a banshee is but…What the hell is Lukøje?”

She was quiet. It did not seem necessary to speak just to tell the human she did not know the answer to his inquiry. Instead, she stared at him in wait.

“Sam?” Dean called past her. He pushed the angel out of the way, and raised his voice. “Sam?”

“Dean, I don’t sense them anywhere within hearing distance.”

“Where the hell are they? I left them right here a minute ago! They end up in Sweden again? Dammit, Sam.” He reached for his cellphone.

“I will have someone check into Sweden. In the meantime, if you’ve no other use for me…I’d like to seek out Castiel in Heaven or elsewhere on Earth. Sam indicated to me days ago that he would call for me if Castiel needed help. I don’t know that he would contact me otherwise.”

“Yeah, go. You find him, you tell him to get his winged ass back here with Sam.”

She tilted her head at him very slightly. “I will tell him you request his presence, and your brother’s.”

“Whatever. Go. Fetch.”

She spared him a moment of spiteful glower, then disappeared from view.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for comments! They keep me going!


	13. Sleeper Cells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primal screams turn to quiet panic, as Castiel and Sam find themselves trapped.
> 
> Dean receives a less angelic visitor.

The first thing Castiel realized when the screaming finally stopped was that it had been coming all this time from his own throat.

He uncurled himself as well as he could, took his face from his arms and snatched a partial breath. The smell was there still, but its potency had died back enough to allow for the angel's coherency. Without his primal, glass-shattering screams, there was near silence.

He turned his head, then flinched as it caught on the side of the cage which dared hold him. After a moment spent trying to free himself, both manually and by use of his power, Castiel sighed, and looked around him.

That was when he found Sam, twisted into a fetal crouch, hands over his ears, shaking violently. He was encased inside an identical cell, and his large frame had even less space than did Castiel's.

"Sam." His voice was shredded with the screams, but it obeyed him. The trembling intensified, and Castiel frowned deeply. "Sam?"

"Please, please," the voice was muttering. "Anything, Michael, make him stop!"

Castiel's eyebrow peaked, his eyes narrowing as he listened.

The chanting continued, a whisper choked by fear from his lover’s lips. “Michael? You can make him stop; make him stop; please, please. I’ll do anything.” 

“Sam?”

 The murmurs faded away, and silence came over them both. Blue eyes searched as far as they could see, but there was only darkness. Damp, stinking darkness, and two cages the size of large dog kennels preventing the angel from moving, and Sam from even straightening without bending at the neck, even if he were inclined to uncurl his large body. 

“He’s quiet,” Sam whispered to himself.

“Sam, it’s me. Sam?”

“It’s never you, Cas. Every time I think it’s you, he rips my heart out. I won’t believe it again. That scream, that’s not Castiel. There’s only one thing I’ve heard scream that way. Get out of my head, Lucifer, you sadistic prick!” The sobs wracked Sam’s body without mercy.

“Sam, Lucifer isn’t…”

“Stop lying to me!” a hoarse shriek commanded. “I’m not listening to you! You’ve done some crap stuff to me in the past, but this? Making me think…making me think that angel buddy of Dean’s could…How long have you been screwing with me? You let me think I was out! You let me think that angel came back for me!”

Castiel’s heart was breaking. “I did come for you, Sam,” he breathed.

“And what’s with the kennels, you bitch? How many layers are there to this freaking nightmare? How many times did you make me think I was done here?”

“Sam, reach for my hand. Please.”

But the hunter flinched from the approach of Castiel’s fingers toward the kennel he inhabited. “Don’t touch me with his hands, Lucifer,” he warned in a dangerous tone. “Don’t you dare. Use his face if it gets you off, but I swear if you touch me with his hands, I’ll tear your goddamn arm off.”

“Sam, I can’t extend my Grace to help you. There’s something trapping me. But if you’ll let me touch you, I can clear your mind.”

“My mind is clear, you holy horror. For the first time in who knows how long. How much time passed? Huh? I thought I was out for years, that I’d lived topside for years, you creep! How much time really passed? Minutes? Days?”

Castiel closed his eyes. “Sam,” he repeated slowly. “I cannot use my power in this place. I don’t know where we are, and I don’t know who has locked us in here. Please, before our captors return, you must let me help you. I don’t know what else to do.”

“Screw off, jackass. You are one sad bitch, you know that? It’s one thing to make me think I was out, to make me think I’d escaped. But why bring the angel into it? I can’t believe I even fell for that! Why would you even imagine in that screwed up head of yours that Castiel falling in love with me would be believable?”

Castiel licked his lips. He leaned back with a painful sigh.

“Why aren’t you laughing?” Sam demanded suddenly, through his angry sobs. “Why aren’t you gloating? You always laugh, and you always gloat. Come on, man. You convinced me an angel of the Lord, the most incredible being I’ve ever met, you had me believing he gave a damn about me. Where’s the chatter? Where’s the grand finale where you remind me that my own fingers snapped him out of existence, that I killed the purest thing I’ve ever known, and that it was still a better fate for him than living and loving me? My favorite bit? Definitely the part where you had him take my hallucinations of you. Very meta, asshole. Bravo. You know, even if the fact that a freaking angel cared about me didn’t tip me off, I guess the idea of Dean talking me out of the trials should have done it. Like he would ever give up on the idea of closing down Hell just for one man. He’s smarter than that. He’s John Winchester’s son, you ass; he’d never let anything stand in the way of sealing Hell!” 

The angel held his head in his hands, listening to the weeping bitter rage in the cell beside his. Partway through the speech about Dean’s dedication to the trials, he realized that his lover’s eyes were coated in a fog, that he was affected by something other than his memories of Lucifer and that cage. The hunter was suffering from delusion, but there was something else at play here. He took a breath and began again. “You’re right, Sam. I’m not Castiel. And I do intend to…to gloat. Take my hand, and I’ll end the illusion.”

“Don’t touch me, you son of a bitch.”

“You want this illusion to be over, Sam? Take it.”

“You filthy-“

“Take it!” he commanded sharply. 

Sam turned to him with loathing in every twitch of his handsome face. “I swear to you, somehow I will find a way to hurt you for this. Count on that.” He reached his hand through the narrow gap in the bars of the cage to grasp Castiel’s long fingers. The effect was immediate. Sam’s hazel eyes refocused, blinking into clarity, and the pain on his face eased with relief. 

"Cas? Castiel, are you...you?"

The angel smiled weakly. "I'm me, Sam."

"How can I know?" he hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his sobs.

"You will have to choose to believe me. Have faith, Sam."

There came a sharp bark of bitter laughter, and the dark eyes closed again. "Have faith. Only Castiel could ask that of me after everything I've done, after all we've been through."

He was not sure what that meant, but he was relieved Sam was willing to accept this reality. "What do you remember about how we got here? Was there spell work done? To prevent use of angelic abilities?"

The brown head shook. "I don't know. I was puking my guts out, then I woke up here, with you screaming like nothing I've ever heard before, except when that creepy ass brother of yours let all his frustration out in the cage. His true voice, Michael said. He kept healing me every time my eardrums burst, so I could keep hearing Lucifer scream. So I guess that was your true voice screaming for the past hour?"

Castiel cringed. "If so, we are very lucky you have the capacity and fortitude of an archangel's true vessel. I would not like to have found that each of your bones had shattered."

"Yeah. Me too. What the hell was that, Cas? What can do that to you?"

A deep frown played on Castiel's face. "I don't know. Something so vile and corrupt that breathing it into my vessel nearly made me lose myself. I could not...It was as though my Grace was rejecting my vessel like an ill-matched organ, yet I could not expel myself from it. The more corruption I breathed in, the more painful and urgent it became to abandon the body, and yet the more trapped I became."

"Don't you...I mean do you even need to breathe?"

"I do not. But I need to allow the vessel to do so occasionally. It is complicated."

Sam nodded and cringed as his head hit the top of his cell. "Okay. But that voice we heard."

"What voice?"

"The voice. The one that talked about the banshees."

The angel shook his head. "I heard nothing about banshees."

"Screamers that foretell death? Those are banshees, Cas."

He attempted to stretch out his wings, but found them unresponsive, too heavy to lift. "I know what banshees are, Sam. I don't recall hearing someone talk about them. Perhaps it was part of the hallucinations you were experiencing. I heard someone say he could not enter the bunker without permission."

"Yeah. Lukøje? What is that?"

"Closed eye? I don't know any other translation for that word. Very old Danish for closed eye. Roughly, and assuming your pronunciation is accurate."

Sam gave him a bit of a smirk, but did not respond. "Okay. That doesn't help." He sighed. "First things. Get us out of here, will you?"

Castiel sat hard against the side of the cage. "Sam, if I could have done so, I would have before now."

"But they're just...how are you not strong enough to break out of these?"

"Apparently I am not," Castiel snapped hoarsely. "I have the strength of a human again, and as I recall, that was quite limiting."

"But you healed me. Just now."

"If I'm right, that is the extent of my abilities."

Sam sighed heavily. "Great. Perfect time to lose track of your mojo, Angel."

But the voice was soft, and Castiel knew it was gentle teasing rather than a true accusation. “Yes. Well, if there is anything we have ever been able to count on, it is that I will be useless at the most inopportune moments.”

The sympathetic smile he received from Sam did not help. “You’re still more useful than I am, fly boy. I can’t even sit up straight. As Dean would say, let’s just hash this out.”

“That’s his phrase for thinking and talking, yes?”

“Yeah. What do we know about this thing that’s got us?”

Castiel licked his lips and flared his nostrils. “It is powerful enough and corrupt enough to set my Grace against my vessel. I still feel…” Panicked. He felt panicked, like he urgently needed to escape his own skin, as if he were about to drown in pollution, in poison. As if every moment spent in this flesh were corroding his very spirit. “It is less painful than before, less…desperate. But I can still feel myself…searching for an exit.”

Sam took a breath. “If you could leave, would you be here?”

The blue gaze lowered in shame. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I don’t know if I could overpower the compulsion to flee. It is very…primal.”

The hunter nodded at him. “Okay. You can’t fight against that. You shouldn’t. If you get the chance, you go. I don’t want you up against whatever it was that made you scream like that. I don’t want you ever to feel like that again.”

“I’m so sorry it frightened you, Sam.”

Dark hair fell in front of the man’s face. “It’s just…what Lucifer did, when we fell back into the pit. Just screamed, for I don’t know how long. Days or weeks maybe. Michael did nothing, except heal me over and over so I didn’t miss any of it. By the time Michael had had enough, I probably should have been deaf or dead a thousand times, just from the sound. It never occurred to me that you would even be capable of that sound, that it wasn’t exclusive to…him.”

Castiel blinked slowly. The thought that something about him reminded his human of Lucifer, the thing of Sam’s worst nightmares, pierced his heart as surely as a killing blade. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“It’s all right. Just…glad you’re on my side.”

“Always, my love.”

The hunter’s face brightened at the endearment. “What else do we know, Angel?”

“Powerful and corrupt. And needs permission to enter a home.”

Sam’s eyes became walls of ice suddenly. “Which means it’s after Dean,” he snarled. “It wanted us out of the way, and it wanted to enter the bunker. So we’re just bystanders. The real target is Dean.”

“Is your brother likely to invite anyone into the bunker?”

***

Dean slammed the door shut as hard as he could. The sound echoed in the bunker, and instead of satisfying him, it only angered him more. “Pick up your damn phone, Sammy!” he shouted into the empty residence. He dialed Castiel again, and put it on speaker phone in case there was a response. Of course there was none. He gripped his phone tightly, wanting to slam it into the wall. But he stilled his hand and dialed again. 

After four rings, which he knew were deliberately ignored, a voice purred into his ear, “Hello, Dean. Back to using the phone, are you? I enjoyed our last blood call.”

“Stow it, your bitchiness.”

“Most address royalty with a bit more…reverence.”

“Your boys out of control again, Crowley? You got a couple of goons on my brother?”

There was a half-beat of silence on the other end, which answered his question for him. Crowley recovered quickly. “If you think I’ve nothing better to do than follow your moose around, you’ve got no idea how demanding it is to run a realm peopled by demons.”

“So it ain’t you. And you haven’t heard anything either? What do you know about banshees?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for a trivia game, bestie. There is a war in the Sudan, you know. Forty thousand casualties and mounting. Heaven’s got its influx of souls. Someone has to handle the intake on our end. Lots of paperwork from that conflict alone, and the crossroads in Afghanistan and Nigeria are a mess right now. Don’t even get me started on the backup regarding Syria. The red tape will make you nuts. Inevitably Heaven thinks they get first pick, regardless of contracts I’ve brokered personally. Innocents and civilians, and blah blah blah.”

Dean rubbed at his eyes. “I need help finding Sam. You helped me last time.”

The voice roared back at him. “Yes, and what incredible gratitude that earned me! Your fealty, Dean! Care to give it? No? Then stop calling me. I’m finished running your errands with nothing to show for it. Consider yourself lucky I answer your calls anymore. Next time I answer, your first words to me had better be talk of loyalty to the throne, or I will drop the line faster than you can get your panties out of their twist.”

The phone went dead in his hand, and he growled at it angrily. 

The knock at the door sent him flying toward it before his first thought could focus. “Hannah?” he demanded as he threw the heavy door open.

 Outside the bunker stood a very tall, very thin man, with dark sunken eyes. Even though he was no one Dean had ever seen before, he immediately recognized all the telltale signs that he was looking at another hunter. 

His hand produced his 1911 from his waistband, and the safety was off before he had even spoken. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The eyes gazed without fear at the weapon. “You’re Dean Winchester? John’s boy?”

The words confirmed what he had suspected. Nobody called him John’s boy unless they had been in the life for a long time. “Who’s asking?”

The head ducked down a bit, and he shifted on his feet. “Name’s Luke. Old Luke, they’ve called me. I have some information for you.”

Dean pulled back the handle on the Colt, glaring into the man’s face. “Talk fast. I don’t know anybody named Luke. In a minute, nobody else will either.”

The voice was low, and it had just a whisper of a lilting accent that Dean could only identify as probably European. “Your brother Sam. I can help you find him. He told me to come to you here. That you’d need to hear about the banshee that nabbed him.”

Banshee. Dean hesitated, his mind whirring with a hundred images. He was going through every scenario in his head, every possible way an interaction with this man could go wrong. But in the end, he was the one with the gun, and no matter how long this man had been hunting, Dean was willing to bet that his own reflexes were faster than this old guy’s empty hands. Finally, he nodded. “So tell me.”

Luke looked around them suspiciously. “Not out here. You want my help, you gotta let me in. Someone might be listening.”

Dean glanced behind the man out at the forest, where somehow his brother and the angel had disappeared into thin air. He made the decision with a sigh. “Fine. Get in here.”


	14. Enter Sandman, pt 1: POV Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Dean is taking a visitor into his home, Sam and Castiel partake of a shared nightmare elsewhere, under the cruel scrutiny of a type of banshee no lore ever warned them about.

Sam had tried picking the lock, but his hands were clumsy, and he had very little to work with. The whole situation seemed entirely too similar to the incident with the Bender family. In fact, if it weren't for Castiel's presence, he could have believed he was back in that old barn, awaiting the disturbing, nasty game. Even the cage seemed the same, now that he looked closer.

Castiel had been quiet for a long time. It was preying on Sam's nerves a bit, after all the screaming.

"Hey. Cas. You still with me, man?"

Castiel's eyes did not open. But he frowned. "Why do you say that? Man. I'm clearly not a man. But you call me that."

The hunter sighed and rested his head against the cage. "I don't know. It's something you say to other guys. You might not be human, but you're a guy."

"Has that ever bothered you?"

Sam felt a flush creep up his neck. "What?"

"That I'm male. Gender is mostly irrelevant for an angel, but I have ever been drawn to a male vessel on the few occasions I've needed to inhabit one, and I have considered myself male over my lifetime. Some angels have no gender identity whatsoever, but many of us do, at least somewhat. So? Has it ever bothered you?"

"I don't know, man." Sam rubbed the back of his neck as if he could erase the blush that Castiel could not even see. "I mean...you've been male as long as I've known you. Be weird if you weren't."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

He sighed. "I know. No, you're right. I mean, yeah, in the beginning, it surprised me a little. When it wasn't only about enjoying your company anymore, when I started to think I might be attracted to you. I mean, I met Jimmy. And he's a good looking guy. But he didn't do anything for me. It's you. It's like...if you were Jimmy's identical twin. I could see he was nice on the eyes. But you're...you're different. And it scared me a bit when I realized I was getting hung up on a guy. But I never thought I'd get the chance to do anything about it, so it didn't matter. And when you told me you loved me...it still didn't matter, because it was you."

Castiel was smiling now, though his eyes remained closed. "Sam, you have a language all your own; do you know that? You have your own grammatical structure. I wonder if I'll ever be completely fluent."

The flush extended to his ears and cheeks. "Shut up, jackass. I'm trying to tell you you're so sexy even a straight guy wants you."

There came a short laugh from the other cage.

"I was never so butch as Dean, but it was a really rare guy that could make me look twice. I mean, Dean can get turned on by a lamp. That guy is up for any kind of fun, at least in the safety of his own head. If something is pretty, he wants it. And his definition of pretty is broad. He talks a good talk, but you give him a real live Dr. Sexy, M.D., and I'm willing to put money on them banging a hole through the wall, as long as the doctor didn't want to cuddle after. But me, I guess I never thought I'd do anything more than just look at another guy."

The angel waited.

He laughed softly. “Dean, I guess he was worried it might be an issue, so he once asked my dad what he would do if I turned out to be gay. He thought I couldn't hear him. Dad just stopped sharpening his knife, and said, 'Can the kid still shoot a salt round and take a punch?' Dean said yeah. So Dad shrugged, and said, 'So what do I care what or who he does when he's done with a job for the night? Get over here and clean your weapon. I didn't get you this thing so you could let it jam.'"

There was quiet between them, but the angel was shaking his head.

"What?"

"Your father. I hear small pieces of information about him, and I never know how to compile them all into an impression of the man."

Sam snorted quietly. "Yeah. You and me both."

There came a scraping sound at the far end of the room, and Sam's muscles tightened into coils. He could feel Castiel on alert as well.

"Hello, you sleepyheads," cried a voice as a door opened in the dark.

Sam's stomach began to churn again.

"Who is there?" Castiel demanded.

"Oh, the angel is awake! I wondered if it had survived my warning."

Castiel turned to Sam frantically. "Sam? The smell. It's back! Can you hear...anything?"

Sam stared at him. "Why can't you hear his voice?" he hissed.

"It's all right, human. Do you have names, by the way? Silly to call us each by our species, isn't it? Let's see."

"Sam, what do you hear?"

The panic rising in Castiel's tone made Sam's own fear bubble to the surface. "Let us go, you son of a bitch! What are you doing to him?"

Finally, a face appeared before them, but only for an instant. It was that of a very old man, dripping with sweat and sickness, patchy, stringy dark hair falling in front of his eyes sunken into a skeletal face. Hazel eyes.

Sam gasped in a breath, just as Castiel began shaking violently as though a seizure were assaulting him. "What the hell are you?" he demanded shrilly.

"What's wrong, Sam? Don't like to see yourself at six hundred years old? Six eighteen, I believe, though it's hard to remember." The visage faded into a featureless gray figure, but Sam knew he would never be able to forget the look of his own eyes from that horrible face.

"What are you doing to the angel?" he shouted again, gripping the cage with tight fingers.

"It's being warned," the voice said quietly.

The sound still elicited nausea, but Sam no longer felt as though he were going to vomit.

"Reapers. They just can't let me do what I do. And Lukøje needs space to do his great work. Anytime Lukøje is at work, I secrete my warning for reapers to steer clear. They sense a death coming, and they descend, as if they are the only vultures who have the right. If they do not flee, I'm afraid the warning becomes quite uncomfortable for them."

Sam stared in horror at his lover's writhing body. "He can't leave his vessel! Leave him alone! He's not a reaper! Leave him alone, you bastard!"

"Oh, I know it isn't a reaper. And I'm perfectly aware that it is locked into its vessel. Lukøje made sure of it before he left. After all, we can't have it flying off to bring in the calvary, can we?"

"What do you want with us?" He was screaming now, as his head was beginning to spin with dizziness the more he was exposed to this thing's voice. "Who are you?"

"I'm happy to answer your questions, Sam. Let's turn your angel off for a moment, give us some privacy." He reached in to Castiel's cage and touched his face gently. Terror filled Sam as he watched Castiel's eyes burst bright blue with pain. Then the angel fell silent and still, as if he slept.

"What did you do?"

"You didn't know angels have off switches?" The voice cackled. "Come now, Sam. Which angel is this? A guardian, perhaps, or a soldier in any case. What is its name?"

"I'm not telling you anything about him."

"Suit yourself. It's unlikely to be so loyal to you in return. The moment Lukøje allows it to run, it will leave you and this vessel to rot. Humans mean very little to them."

Sam wanted to take the bait, to defend Castiel and his steadfast commitment to the humans in his charge. But he forced himself to shrug. "Doesn't make it right to hurt him."

"That's sweet, Sam."

A feeling like a nasty migraine was coming over him. Those last three words nearly spilled bile out of his mouth, but he choked it down. "How are you doing this?" he asked weakly.

"Yes, the voice. Do you like it? Nauseating to humans. Would you like to know why? It produces grief in the same way as death banshees incite panic and fear. It's all fascinating, really. Instead of making you want to fight or flee, grief just makes you curl in on yourself, leaves you fragile and susceptible. Vulnerable. There's no need for me to scream as my cousins do. I whisper and you fall ill. Feel it now. It isn't just sick, is it? It's melancholy at a level you've never experienced. Beautiful if I do say so myself. Not bright life nor dark death. Gray sleep."

Sam sighed wearily, and his body crumbled against the bars holding him. No strength remained. It was similar to the apathy Sinclair Cuthbert had invoked when stealing his will, but there was something far more desperate, painful about this. "Why are you doing this?" he moaned.

There was still no image to match the voice, and he was having trouble even locating the origin of the sound. "Sam, did you know angels don't dream? They do, under extreme circumstances, but nothing like the way you dream. So your angel here is borrowing from your head."

Suddenly, Sam became aware of a jerking in Castiel's hand, a twitching grimace in his face. "What are you..."

The voice gave a gurgling giggle. A sound like dripping blood accompanied it, making Sam cringe as his saliva grew too hot under his tongue, his signal that he would soon be gagging onto the ground again. "And of all the dreams to borrow, it had the misfortune to be nearest a head case like you."

Realization came over the hunter like a shock. "You're...giving him my nightmares?"

"Well, you weren't using them at the moment. It will keep them warm for you. It's interesting to watch, isn't it? The way it tries to use its almighty powers in its sleep? It doesn't understand the way you and I do. That's the point of nightmares, isn't it, Sam? You can never actually use your strength in them. Always weaker, slower, out of control.”

His eyes closed, and he dry-heaved twice before opening them again. "He could heal me, but he's not strong enough to break out of this cage. I can talk to him, feel things, but I can't make my fingers pick this lock. Everything is heavy…”

"You are a smart one, Sammy."

"Don't..." But the words died over the pile of sick pouring out of his mouth.

The voice continued as if there were not vomit spilling out over the floor. "You're asleep, Sammy. You and the angel have been asleep, sharing nightmares, since you met my friend Lukøje."

"What does he want with us?"

"You? No, you're just in the way. Although," the voice considered, "I've been making the case that you and the angel both deserve the Lukøje special due to your messed up psychology."

"What is Lukøje?" Sam spat the last of the fluid onto the floor, panting.

"Lukøje is the greatest apprentice Death has ever trained."

Sam screwed up his nose at that. "What, Death? Death takes grad students?"

"Lukøje was a talented reaper at one time. The most promising pupil Death ever had, rose to be part of the great entourage, until one day, he was so bold as to challenge the Grim Reaper's methodology. Death cast him out on his own. And now he is second in strength to Death only, and feared far more by many."

"So he's just a big bad reaper?"

"Infinitely more than a reaper, Sam. He has names all over the world. If you do not recognize Lukøje, perhaps you have heard of the Sandman?"

Nothing about this was making any sense. Perhaps that was because he had vomited everything in his stomach and probably part of his stomach too, and was fading fast. But that wasn't true was it? He was already asleep, wasn’t he? He did not understand. Sam closed his eyes tightly, and wished he could think straight. "The nursery rhyme or the comic book?" he choked hoarsely. His fingers dug into the ground, trying to find purchase in a reality he was quickly realizing did not exist.

"He brings rest to those who beg for it. He brings peace. He comes for those whose bodies or minds have chosen sleep over both life and death. Those too broken to live, but too stubborn or too frightened to die. He lets them sleep so deeply only a being of immense strength can reap them or wake them."

The hunter's lips parted as his breath caught in a dry throat. "You're talking about a coma."

"If you'd like to deromanticize the entire work of art by referring to it as such."

Sam focused the remainder of his strength on his breath. "Am I in a coma now?"

"Yes, but it is what you wanted. Rest. It's what you all wanted. The three of you who live in that warded fortress. You, ready to give yourself over as a vessel. The angel who has no desire to return to Heaven. But most of all, the demon who is afraid to live and afraid to die.”

The sound was not producing the nauseating effect as it had before, seeming to ebb in tides of intensity, but this time the words did so. “You mean Dean.”

“Dean Winchester, Righteous Man and Knight of Hell. He has been calling out to Lukøje unceasingly for weeks, and his delicious desperation has become a cacophony the great Lukøje can no longer ignore. You see, Sammy, Lukøje can only do his work as a fulfillment of a creature’s own desire. He brings sleep as easily as a thought, but for his true specialty, he must have permission. There must be begging involved; isn’t that fantastic?”

A helpless wail let loose from the angel’s lips then, ripping into Sam’s heart with the intensity of the agonizing cry. His eyes were filling with tears even as he felt himself drifting off inside his own head. “Let him go. Just…let him leave his vessel,” he pleaded. The idea of Castiel spiraling into the heavens without his corporeal body wrenched his heart into his throat, and grief washed over him anew. 

“That’s it. Oh, how nice,” the faceless voice hissed. “A mortal in love with an angel; how delicious is that? That’s it, Sam. Think about it abandoning you. You’ll never see it again, you know. Once it leaves its body, all emotions and attachments created while in it fade away, shed like a snakeskin. Angels in their true form cannot feel things like love and desire. Didn’t you know? The second it leaves its skin, it leaves you forever. Still want me to release it?”

A sob deep in his chest squeezed his lungs, and his body felt even heavier than before. In fact, he realized now that he was laid out on his back, not crushed into a small cage. This was not the Benders’ holding kennels. He was lying on a floor, a dirty floor. There was no cage at all, nothing preventing him from getting up and walking away. Not that it mattered. He could not lift his limbs. He was entirely paralyzed. Yet he could still see Castiel, could see him even better now, lying next to him only a few feet away. The angel’s face was contorted with pain, his mouth open in a silent scream. Knowing that it was his own mind’s nightmares and memories torturing his angel was agony. “Yes,” he breathed finally, releasing a sob without meaning to. “Yes, I still want…Please just let him go.”

“You’ll be all alone, Sam. Dean will sleep until a reaper comes for him, which is exactly what he wants. He’s so tired, so afraid and weak. And he’s sick of looking after you. I see into your nightmares; I can see now. Your brother is tired of his burden. Tired of you. He will sleep now, and the angel will leave you behind. Not love, not anger. Only indifference. The vessel will rot and it will fly away, leaving you behind.”

Every ounce of confidence Sam had was being gnawed down to its chewy center of insecurity. Part of his mind screamed at him, ordered him to stop listening to this monster, to get working on a plan, to figure it all out and fight. Part of his heart begged him to remember Castiel’s promises, that he was loved. 

But most of him was flushing with grief, and despair overwhelmed those smaller parts, deafened him to those tiny voices.

“Just let him go,” Sam wept. “I don’t matter. Just please, let him go.”

“All right, Sam. But remember, it’s what you wanted.”

Tears cut down his face as he slid his eyes to watch Castiel’s body seize terribly, and pour unfathomably beautiful light from its mouth, into the air above them. The light lingered for just an instant, as if surveying the room blindly, then it rose to the ceiling and disappeared entirely. 

Sam’s eyes closed at last. There was nothing to stay awake for anymore. No one to live for, and nothing to die for. The only thing left was sleep.


	15. Enter Sandman, pt 2: POV Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was happening in Castiel's mind while we were in Sam's?

Castiel's hamstrings had been serrated. It was the most horrible pain he could imagine, for only a fraction of a second, because the next temporal unit expanded his already broad definition of agony. The springy band of tissue stretching from his calf to his heel had been sliced clean through at the ankles with a merciless claw. The tendons ripped their way up each leg, snapping like an archer's bow, destroying the skin and muscle. He screamed, and the sound of it shattered the panels of glass surrounding the office, spraying shards all over his bloody frame.

"I have never known an angel to be so attached to its vessel," a strange voice was saying.

He could not respond. He could not even breathe except to gasp and shriek. But the voice dripped deep into his mind, settling there as a parasite might have. He knew better than to attempt to locate the source, and anyway, his eyes were rolling back against his will, and for a long time, he could see nothing.

His wounds were not healing.

"Angels are difficult creatures. A pain in the ass individually and a thorn in the side of creation as a group. So you can forgive that in the very few instances in which I've had the pleasure of dealing with one, I've relished each moment."

"These...are not...my memories," Castiel forced out through clenched teeth.

"Sadly, no. I'd like to shake the paw of any werewolf who could tear open an angel's Achilles' tendons that way. No, this is one of the human's fond recollections. A recent one, if I'm right. A lovely treasure among a vault full of torturous events, both real and dreamed. See, angels don't have the imagination for nightmares. Humans are incredible at tormenting their own subconscious. It's art, angel, and I'm letting you share some of this human's best work."

Castiel could feel a frightening chill come over him. His mind was numbing. "What..."

"Oh, that's shock. Enjoy that. A peculiar experience, shock. Oh, but you're shifting things, aren't you? How nice. Where are we going now?"

Hannah's office was fading fast, and under the ripples emerged a ring of holy fire, preventing his escape. Castiel gasped in a gulp of black smoke. He could not see where it was all coming from, but he did remember this place, or rather this feeling. It was one of his own dreams, from the time spent as a human. He was mortified by the idea of being possessed by a demon while human. It had haunted his nights alone, chased him from town to town. Then, after his encounter with Hael, he had feared possession by another angel too. His was an extraordinarily strong vessel. It was suited to him, but others could utilize it, and he would have been powerless to keep a demon out. An angel possession was more complicated, but in his dreams, he was never able to keep from surrendering to occupation.

"Hm. I stand corrected, you peculiar little thing. You have had dreams of your own!"

Peculiar. It was what Lucifer had called him. Just the word made him sick with fear in this dream state. The ring of holy fire burst into an inferno on all sides, and even the demon smoke skittered away in fright. Massive wings, nearly too bright for even another angel to gaze upon, were blinding to his human eyes. The Morningstar was smiling down at him.

"What a peculiar thing you are. Heaven's little rebel. Aren't you a curiosity!"

It might have been Lucifer's true voice, or perhaps his vessel Nick's. But he could hear it coming from inside his own head.

"Where is Sam?" he demanded.

His own words, spoken in a firm, gruff tone, dispelled the injuries in his legs, quieted the pain, and doused the holy fire.

Sam.

Nothing was real except Sam.

"Sam?" There was laughter in his head. "He isn't interested in whatever you are without your vessel."

Castiel frowned severely. "Where is he?"

"Gone. Don't you know how long you've been dreaming? The vessel has rotted away. Sam has grown tired of waiting for you. He was faithful as a golden retriever for a very long time. Tended to you. Spoke to you. Held you. But it's been years since he gave up on you, angel."

Grief pulled darkness over him, but he fought the hopelessness which was flooding his heart. "That isn't...isn't true. You're feeding from me. Sam isn't gone. He's in trouble. He needs me."

"Are you sure of that? I fed on Sam for years. He made such a satisfying buffet, what with his daddy issues and his worry for his brother, and, well, then there was you, and his complete inability to help you...I didn't need to prey on anyone else for all those years. And you know the best part? When I told him that, he just muttered that it was better I continued to feed on him than you or someone else. Such a deliciously noble soul, wouldn't you agree?"

Anger flared raw in Castiel's heart. "When I get to you-"

"Here come the futile threats. You know, I could release you, let you abandon your vessel, and let you see what I've done to your human pet. I released him eventually, gave him the choice to stay or go as he pleased. The stupid thing stayed to tend to you, letting me feed on him for years, just to be near you in case you awoke. It was pathetic. So finally, I told him to choose between your life and his. Told him I would let the angel out of its vessel if he chose to die himself. Stupid human tried to negotiate for your vessel too. Said he didn't want you without it. I told him he'd be dead anyway, so it didn't make any difference."

The fog in Castiel's mind was keeping him from following everything, and he felt certain the voice had contradicted itself at least once. But it made no difference. Just like any dream, even that which made no logical sense seemed reasonable. Sam had abandoned him. Sam had died for him. Sam had not wanted him apart from this vessel. Sam was in pain for years. Sam had watched Castiel tortured by the hunter's own memories of pain. Sam had submitted to this thing's sadism in order to keep others, including him, from the same fate.

None of it was real, he was sure of it. But the angel grieved for his lover as though it were. He could not help it.

"Sam," he wailed with all his aching heart. "Sam!"

Lucifer's grin was back. "You want the truth, you broken monster? Here is the truth. I made Sam believe that he had convinced me to release you from your vessel, as if I could even do that without great Lukøje. It isn't what I do, after all. But he believes he succeeded in sacrificing himself for your ability to flee. He thinks you abandoned him. Thinks you have forgotten all about him now that you are free of this body. It's amazing how devastated he is right now. How he's given himself over to the sleep. He doesn't even want to wake up now, doesn't care what I do to him. It's beautiful!"

Throughout the speech, spoken from Lucifer's cruel lips, Castiel felt his heart sinking lower and lower. Somehow this tale rang with the tone of truth, making it hurt far worse. Somewhere, on the other side of this dream was Sam Winchester, thinking that he had been left all alone in love once again, that yet another being he had trusted with his heart had left him to suffer.

"No," he choked out. "Sam knows better. Whatever you think you've done to him...Sam knows better."

"Really? I had him convinced it was five years ago, and he was in Hell with the Devil."

"Banshee,"Castiel murmured. "Not a banshee of death, but of suffering. Is there not enough suffering in the world? You must create it?"

There came a short laugh. "Firstly? No. There is never enough suffering in the world. And secondly, I truly believe in Lukøje's work. He is a master. Sleep and dreams are such delicious canvasses for what I do. He provides my subjects, and I feed on their grief, and the grief of those around them."

Castiel swallowed. "Dean. You came for Dean."

"No. Lukøje came for Dean. The human has been crying out for relief for weeks. He is afraid of the waking world, and yet equally afraid of death. And now he has invited Lukøje in to give him rest, to suspend him in unconscious half-life, while those around him grieve. That's where I come in, generally. But once in a while, Lukøje allows me to play with certain truly disturbed minds along the way, and I hit a jackpot when we found a hunter and an angel, both filled to bursting with self-loathing, guilt, and daddy issues, and yet in love with one another to boot! It's my birthday and every pagan holiday all at the same time!"

"You are a vile thing."

"And you? You are helpless. Enjoy the next round of dreams, you feathered freak. I despise angels, and you are going to be my masterpiece."

The tip of his tongue painted pink lips. "Do what you must while you have me. For when I am returned to my strength, I will exact vengeance for any amount of pain you brought on Sam Winchester."

The voice simply laughed.


	16. No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is immediately sorry he opened the bunker door. 
> 
> Sam reaches deep to release something he has pushed down his whole life, something far stronger than grief, something powerful enough to frighten a banshee and wake a sleeping angel.

It was not an attack in the usual sense. There was no abrupt movement, no violent thrust of a weapon. But Dean had hunted the world's nastiest and most subtle creatures, and he recognized the threat as the thin man reached toward him with outstretched fingers which were somehow too long.

Dean slammed the palms of his hands into the man's sternum, sending him flying backward in surprise. "Who are you?" he shouted.

The visitor sneered. "What gave me away?"

Dean was not even sure himself. But he kept his gun trained on the man with a dangerous green glower. Something in his hunter's gut assured him that this was not a man at all, but something powerful and malicious. If he had not come promising news of Sam, Dean might have sensed it before opening the door. After all, no one had ever come knocking at the bunker door before. "Who are you? You aren't a demon. You stepped right past the trap. And the iron and the salt in the paint."

"Allow me to answer your question with a question," the thing said through a smile. "Were you aware that there are different types of reapers?"

"What?" he shrieked.

"It's true. For example, my kind is meant to reap fanged and clawed creatures."

Dean stared at him. "Wait. You carry monsters to Purgatory?"

"Creatures," Luke corrected.

"Well, I already did my tour in Purgatory, you creepy bitch. So what do you want from me?"

"Yes," Luke sighed, “my particular caseload used to be more pleasurable, back when they were far more plentiful. Before hunters began sending them to me en masse. I now prefer my current work."

"Which is?" he demanded.

"Putting those hunters somewhere they will never hurt anyone again."

He lunged at Dean then, surprising the man with both his speed and his strength. Dean was never off-balance long, and he sent a round into the reaper's chest as he retrieved his knife from his belt. It slowed him down, but Dean knew better than to think the bullet would stop him. Then Luke was gone, appearing an instant later behind him, just as the seasoned hunter had known he would. He shoved his knife through to where the thing's heart should have been. There was a distinct cry of pain, and the reaper’s hand closed over the strong one holding the hilt of the blade.

It was not a victory. Instead, even over the roar of his Mark, he could hear a disturbingly familiar noise like a swarm of locusts had invaded his brain, but since he knew Castiel had located the remaining pieces of the Staff of Moses, he was resigned to the next most obvious explanation.

"Djinn," he snarled in fury, feeling his stomach drop as he fell to his knees.

A laugh filled his ears. "I told you, Hunter. There are different sorts of reapers.”

***

Sam could not stand to look at Castiel's empty vessel, knowing the moment it was vacated, it had begun to decay. In all the ways he had feared Jimmy Novak's body would meet its end, rotting the way a corpse should had never even crossed his mind. But there it was, empty, still, lifeless.

And Castiel had not come back.

No matter what else the banshee had lied about, Castiel had not returned, not for his vessel, nor for Sam. He would never have guessed that there was any necessary connection between Castiel's emotional attachments and his vessel, but the more he considered it, the more sense it made. As long as he occupied a vessel, he was the Castiel the hunters loved. But hadn't he changed the last time he had been forced from Jimmy's flesh, dragged back to Heaven by Zachariah? It had taken a while of walking in human skin again for him to return to the angel they knew. Then when the Leviathans had corrupted his vessel, he had been lost to them again.

Sam squeezed his eyes closed tightly. Lukøje was with Dean right now, the banshee had crowed. He had hoped somehow his prayer to Hannah had helped, had warned Dean in time. But if the banshee was right, Dean had already succumbed to the touch of the most powerful djinn they had ever encountered. There was very little Dean hated more than djinn. Shifters and witches disgusted him, demons and angels pissed him off, but djinn…Djinn fed you lies and then ripped your heart out. Three times, Dean had already been under the power of a djinn. And now there was nothing Sam could do to protect him while one sat over him and fed to its evil heart’s content.

“What are you called?” he murmured aloud.

The voice was humming with satisfaction, a toneless melody that made Sam sink deeper and deeper into his own misery. But it stopped to respond to him. “I am a hartzeer banshee. I’m Verdriet.”

“And Lukøje is your boss?”

“Lukøje is my destiny, my fate and my faith.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay. That’s not creepy.”

“I follow him and do his bidding. He chose me as his partner.”

Sam nodded. “You got a face?”

“Of course I’ve got a face.”

“Then why can’t I see it?”

“Because I don’t choose for you to see it, you filthy hunter.”

“Why you so sore about angels?”

There came a snarling sound. “Angels are an affront to nature.”

Without meaning to, Sam let a laugh bark out of him, for which he received a hiss. “Angels are unnatural? Really? What the hell do you call this? Feeding off folk’s misery while they waste away, that seem natural to you?”

“Yes,” he snapped back. “Since it’s my nature, after all! Angels are nothing but arrogant drones. Conceited, cold and sneering.”

Sam was suddenly filled with a roar of anger. It seemed to permeate the air around him, like static electricity, and before he realized it, his muscles had contracted and he had pushed himself to his hands and knees.

A startled yelp came from his jailor, and there was a sound like something moving away from him.

The hunter smiled dangerously. “Interesting. So you don’t have a hold over me while I’m angry?”

“You’re still asleep!” Verdriet cried out. “You can’t break out of that! Lukøje is too powerful for that!”

Sam listened carefully, willing himself past the sickening grief. “Angry doesn’t work for you, does it?” he said again. “I can’t wake myself, but I can keep you from feeding, can’t I?”

“Of course not, you primate. All I need is my voice!”

The thing had been shaken, and there was no doubt. Sam had startled it with the influx of emotion, had possibly even frightened it. He knew he was still asleep, still pressed under the djinn's dream. His limbs were heavy, and he doubted he had truly been able to move his body in reality. But something important had just taken place, and he did not want to lose it. If his hunch was right, if a creature that fed on grief was having trouble swallowing Sam’s temper, this was going to get interesting very quickly, because if there was one thing Sam could do, it was sustain a fury. His whole life, he had been manipulated by demons, angels, monsters and men, and he was not grieved by it. He was enraged. If this thing thought it could break him by taking Castiel, it was very, very wrong. As it always had, his fury would carry him through.

He took a deep breath through his nose, and smiled. For the first time in his life, except perhaps the moment he had seen Lilith’s fear as he crushed her, he felt a wall break in him, and anger rippled free through his mind. Anger. Not hunger as with the demon blood. Not fear as when Death’s wall had shattered. Not desperation brought by the trials. Simple, pure anger poured through him, like it had been waiting all this time, all his life, just for him to give up on holding it back. It came when he called it, and he fed it on mental images of Castiel’s wings turning to ash, of Metatron’s blade in Dean’s chest, of Azazel’s yellow eyes and of Jessica burning. He remembered Brady’s last laugh, saw Crowley’s hex bags in Sarah’s hotel room, watched Madison crumble. He saw Bobby’s blood, heard his father’s voice, listened to Lucifer purring, felt the angels fall. Felt Castiel fall.

Castiel fell, he reminded himself without mercy. He fell because he believed in free will. Because everything they had ever encountered had worked to take that away from them. Heaven, Hell, monsters, the trials and the Mark, it was all about stealing away their will to choose their own paths, to lean against destiny’s overpowering winds as it tried to sweep them off where they belong. Castiel fell for the chance to fly against that wind. He fell to give Sam and Dean that chance.

Sam was not about to give that up because of a sadistic banshee.

Releasing the reins on his anger had given him the strength to pull himself to a stand. All at once, the air seemed electrified around him, and he realized that it was familiar. His lips curved into a smile, until he was baring his teeth like an animal. He knew that feeling, that cracking sting of power.

"You don't know much about us," Sam snarled. "For one thing? You think that vessel over there contained an angel."

The banshee's voice was uncertain. "Of course it did."

"It held a lot more than that. That vessel contained a hunter, you son of a bitch!"

The intensity in the air burst into a cacophony of electricity, a storm that thrilled Sam to his marrow. He would never fear that power. That was his angel.

He laughed madly as this reality began to shake and ripple with an anger equal to his own.

"And it still does," he added with a triumphant hiss. "Castiel doesn't run, you sick freak. Angels don't sleep and hunters don't run."

Like glass breaking all around him in slow motion, this reality shuddered then shattered. Shards burst in every direction, and Sam at last truly opened his eyes and could see what was really there.

They were inside a country church. It was an abandoned structure which could not have served more than a few families, and not for many decades. There was a small altar, bare of any adornment it may have had while in active use, and benches with no backs served as pews. Both he and Castiel lay sprawled on the floor by the altar, like some pagan sacrifice. Seated at the first bench was an impossibly frail figure, wrapped in black.

It took Sam a moment to recognize the figure as female. Its dress was elaborate, heavy Victorian mourning. The face inside the dark veil was emaciated, like a preserved corpse, except that it was glaring at him fiercely.

Sam did not take his eyes off the figure, but he reached for Castiel blindly and found a fistful of feathers to confirm his lover was still with him. He gripped them like a lifeline, and willed his head to clear from the grogginess hanging over him. “Cas,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper.

The feathers twitched and another plume of electric energy pulsed through the air. Castiel was fighting against the sleep, against the nightmares, and Sam knew it was because he could feel him awakening beside him.

“Cas, none of it is real. None of it, okay? This thing is messing with our heads. Please, Cas, I need you.”

Verdriet stood weakly and let loose a screech of anger.

The sound made Sam collapse back to the ground, cradling his stomach.

But the noise had no effect on Castiel, whose eyes flew open. “Sam,” he murmured.

“Cas!” Sam wailed. “I can’t…” As the banshee’s voice continued, he felt all his anger wash away, replaced by a desperate misery that filled him and left him without strength to move. He could feel the sleep fighting against him, clawing into him, tearing him back into the abyss.

Castiel’s movements were slow and heavy, but his eyes were full of fierce blue ice. He lifted himself to stand, stumbling once, but throwing out his wings for balance.

The banshee began to back away, but its ancient legs buckled in its hurry. It crashed to the ground, and threw its hands up defensively. “Stop!” it screamed. “I’ll kill him! You know I can kill him!”

The angel glanced back down at Sam, who was writhing on the ground. Their eyes met, and Sam allowed Castiel to see the depth of the grief in his heart. The blue eyes raised again to lock onto Verdriet.

“Get back, angel!” it warned in a shrill panic. “Run while you can! I’ll kill you both!”

Castiel smiled strangely, and Sam heard him speak through the fog of his exhaustion and misery. “Angels do not sleep,” he corrected in a deep growl. “And hunters do not run.” In a blink, he was on the banshee, and a blast of Grace filled the room, forcing Sam to cover his eyes with his arm. The monster’s screams sunk into Sam’s flesh, and his own voice joined it. He cried with anguish, curling further into himself, his grief pouring out as a thick miasma into the air which was alight with Castiel’s fury.

Then there was silence, except for Sam’s gasping breath.

His angel was kneeling over him, gently stroking his hair, then lifting him into his arms. Sam could feel the grief washing away with Castiel’s cool healing touch, and he groaned in relief. Castiel held him until the trembling subsided, then he took a step back to survey the scene.

“That’s it, huh?” Sam murmured weakly, as he dropped to his heels to study the dead banshee. “Don’t know what I was expecting. Something less like a sad old woman, I guess.”

He received a look of annoyance from Castiel. “This is not a sad old woman, Sam. It is a vile hartzeer. They feed on suffering and heartache of humans across your world. And some of them enjoy creating it. This one was not content simply feeding from those who were already grieving. It chose to inflict the suffering itself. This is not a sad old woman, it is the worst kind of parasite. Some time ago, Michael had sent out a garrison to rid the world of such things, after some of them found and tormented a favored human.”

“A favored human? What does that mean?”

Castiel shrugged, looking back down at the ancient figure on the floor with disgust. “Some generations have humans who stand out from the rest of humanity. You and your brother, for example. I am embarrassed to say that most humans look quite the same to angels who do not walk among you. But Michael was alerted to the suffering of a woman by the name of Sylvia Plath. It angered him the way these creatures were not satisfied by natural human suffering and chose to inflict grief upon those already overburdened with it. The damage had been done, but Michael’s angels destroyed the hartzeers responsible. This one was solitary, and seemed to have found a patron in this Lukøje figure.”

“It’s a djinn, Cas. I got this thing talking, and it was bragging about Lukøje being the most powerful djinn other than the Alpha itself. And get this. It’s a reaper.”

A frown spread across Castiel’s face. “Yes. There are reapers whose job it is to escort monsters to Purgatory, and they are different from those who take human souls. If Lukøje is a reaper and a djinn, your brother is in great danger. I do not like to think about what such a creature might be able to do to him in his current state.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of Dutch (inexact translations):
> 
> Lukøje: The Closed Eye
> 
> Hartzeer: Heartache, Suffering
> 
> Verdriet: Grief


	17. Fade to Gray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean encounters family he thought he had lost forever, but this reunion is not a pleasant one.

Dean had slashed the First Blade through the neck of the Leviathan with a roar of intense triumph, and was now whirling on the next one. It seemed like he had been at this for hours, one after another, and even as his Mark thrilled with every black oozing mess, his body was exhausted. He could not even have said when he had given up, at what point he had let the Mark have its way, had let the pleasure of the kill soak through him. There was a part of him that had always liked the kill. He was good at what he did, the best, in fact. At this point in his life, he was a better hunter than anyone he had ever met. He had killed things his father had never even heard of. He had killed the thing that killed his father. He could hunt anything. Anything.

Dean was more of a killer now than a hunter. Yesterday that had torn at his heart like the hooks of Hell. Today, it was just a fact. He had possessed the rings of War and Death, and he should have simply kept them, because he was the only Horseman that mattered anymore. He was what the rest of the universe should fear.

_They just don't get it, do they, Sammy?_

_No they don't, Dean._

Purgatory. It was where he belonged. He was the deadliest monster any hunter had ever seen. Cain had begun as a peaceful man. Dean was a trained killer. Hunter, survivalist, protector...Call the spade a spade, and Dean was a serial killer. And he was done pretending he didn't love it.

Sam would say it was the Mark, but Dean knew better. It was him. Cain had said they were kindred spirits. He reminded Cain, the actual freaking biblical Cain, of himself. That was before the Mark. And if Cain became what he was after a life of peace, what would become of the Righteous Man who had apprenticed to Alastair in Hell? Three and a half weeks or nine years, he had been the worst nightmare in Hell. Now? Now he _was_ Hell.

His Blade made short work of another mouthy bitch. He did not even wait for the thud of the body hitting the ground before he looked for another victim.

Purgatory was where he belonged, and he felt not an ounce of guilt here. It was glorious.

Dean's arm was raised to deliver another blow as two figures approached him slowly. For a moment, everything was blurred red in this dark world. But when his wrath dimmed just enough for his vision to clear, he sucked in a breath with a stunned cry, dropping his arm down to his side.

"Benny!"

The large vamp standing before him smiled in his old slow, handsome way. "Hey, brother."

"God!" Dean's heart raced and he knew his old friend could hear it. "God, Benny! You're..."

"Alive? Ain't exactly alive, now am I?" He laughed quietly, but there was a catch in his throat that did not belong there.

"No," Dean stammered. "No, of course not..." His voice trailed off, and he ceased in his step toward his old friend, cut off the hug they might have shared when he looked into the face of Benny's companion. "Son of a bitch."

A mouth full of fangs smiled at him. "Hey, Dean," the voice said. "How's Sammy?"

Benny was smiling too, but suddenly Dean realized that neither smile was friendly. "Now, Purgatory is a big place, brother. What do you think are the odds of me meeting up with yet another vampire that lost his head because of Sam Winchester?"

Dean gripped his Blade tightly as the sneer spread on Gordon's face.

***

Sam was still unsteady on his feet. It worried Castiel, as did the man's impatience. "Sam, you are still affected by the banshee's feed. We need to wait."

"That thing is with Dean!"

Castiel grabbed his hunter's arm firmly. "Sam, stop. One of two things has happened. Either Dean was able to defend himself or the reaper has already completed its attack. Either way, our best course of action is to wait. I cannot heal you any further than I already have. You are depleted. Dean may be in danger, but it is not immediate. If the damage has been done, it will be no worse in ten minutes than it is right now."

Sam was staring at him, even as he was still struggling to force his muscles to obey him. "How can you still know so little about humans? You were one!"

Castiel frowned severely, and his wings succumbed to an involuntary flinch. He was unsure what had brought on that comment, but he knew exactly why it hurt so much. If there was anyone who knew that Castiel had tried, more than any other angel in history, to understand humanity, it was Sam. Metatron and Gabriel had natural advantages in that way. He was a soldier, and he had never learned to connect with humans. But no one, not a single angel, had ever tried as Castiel had tried. He knew he was still badly deficient in this way, but he had thought Sam of all people knew that he was trying.

"How long have we been away from the bunker?"

He shook his head. "Only an hour."

"Yeah. You know what it seemed like to me? Cas, when humans are asleep, when they are dreaming, time doesn't work the same way. Okay? That's why Dean will always believe he was in Hell for decades instead of months. Ten minutes in a dream world could be an eternity. Don't tell me Dean won't be worse off ten minutes from now. Get me to my brother."

***

One of the hardest things he had ever had to do in his life was slice the head off a vamp he had called brother. He had never, not in his worst nightmares, considered he would have to do it twice. And here in Purgatory?

Where do monsters go when they die in monster Heaven?

Castiel's words, spoken a dozen times or more during those dark days, pierced his skull and thudded into him like a concussion as his blade found Benny's neck. Gordon had been easier. When the former hunter had lunged at him, Dean remembered the feeling of betrayal when he had turned against them, remembered the fury and loss at not being the one to kill him the first time. A hunter who had become what he hunted, Gordon had been a monster long before he had taken his first bite.

But Benny.

He would never say so to Sam, knew how Sam felt about it. But Benny was a brother of sorts, just as Castiel had been. Unlike his complicated time with the angel, Benny had never let him down. Even when Dean chose Sam, Benny had been there for him. And last time, back in life, Dean had only been able to do it because he knew there was the chance Benny would be able to make it back. Not a good chance, but a chance. He had never returned to burn the vamp's body. He couldn't close that door. Not after everything Benny had given him, after everything Benny had been to him.

But here in Purgatory?

Kill or be killed just didn't seem to be enough when it came to Benny, when it came down to not knowing what would become of his friend's soul when he did this horrible thing. Benny was his friend, his war brother, no matter what Gordon had said or done to poison that.

He fought against instinct and his Mark to still the Blade.

"Go on! Finish this!" Benny shouted. "You're stronger than before, got that pretty tattoo. You beat me, so do it!"

"Benny, I can't! This ain't you, man! Please!"

The eyes stared up at him from where his friend knelt on the ground. They were both covered in Gordon's blood, and it would not be long before the nasties of this world smelled it.

"Benny, man, talk to me!"

"You know what it's like to fight when you ain't got a chance? You ever been alone, brother? 'Fore I found you, you were looking for your angel buddy. You had somebody to find. Me? I got nothing in this place. You were the first hope I had. Then you sent me back here, and I did what you asked; I saved your brother. Your real brother. Traded one for another, didn't you?"

Grief filled Dean, flooded through his veins, and quieted the Mark for a moment. "Benny, I'm so sorry."

"But you ain't that sorry, are you? Naw, 'cause you got Sam. And when it comes down to it? There ain't nobody you won't kill for Sam."

"Benny, please. He's my brother."

"He look for you when your ass was in this place? He looking for you now?"

Dean was silent as it occurred to him suddenly that he did not know. How had he even ended up in this place? Mark of Cain made him a demon, not a monster, not in a classic, Purgatory monster way. And even if it did, it meant he was dead, so what had killed him?

"That's right. You don't even know. Sam. The Mark. Sam, the Mark. All you can think. Sam, the Mark. All you care about."

He frowned then, and took a step back, even knowing it left him vulnerable to attack. "What did you say?"

"Sam! He's all you care about!"

"No." He took another step back. "No, you said the Mark. How do you know about that? You mentioned my tattoo."

Benny snarled at him but did not take his chance to stand and attack. "You think monsters don't talk?"

Dean licked his lips and continued backing away. "Where are the others? Benny, we never had time to sit and chat while we were covered in blood. Not here, not in this place. Had to wash off the blood and keep moving because they could smell it."

"I can smell you two miles out."

"Yeah. So where is the next party crasher? If this were real, I'd be attacked by all sides, not sitting here talking with you about something you shouldn't even know. If this is real, where's my next fight?"

"I'm here," a too familiar voice said with that too familiar soft tone that belied the danger beneath it.

Below him, Gordon's body and Benny disappeared entirely. But he barely even noticed as he stared at two new figures walking toward him now.

"Dad! Bobby?"

John Winchester's eyes looked just as they had when he had leaned in to whisper about Sam's destiny, when he had burdened his son with the most unthinkable directive any brother could ever receive, that if he could not save him, he would have to kill him.

Bobby was smiling very slightly, but it was in that sad way that told Dean at a glance that he was badly disappointed in him. "Hey, Dean."

"You...you shouldn't be here! Dad, you got out of Hell; Bobby, we sent you to Heaven! You shouldn't be here! You...you should be at peace!" Dean dropped to his knees in the space Benny had just vacated. Sobs choked the man, sent throbs of shame to the deepest parts of him.

"At peace?" Bobby roared with disbelief. "At peace?"

Dean sucked in his breath at the accusation in the tone. It was like a physical blow. "I never wanted you to see me like this," he whispered. "Not you. I'm so sorry."

Bobby shook his head. "At peace," he repeated. "You're calling the King of freaking Hell for things you used to call me for. And I'm supposed to be at peace?"

John was shaking his head when Dean made himself look. "Hunting with an angel. Giving a free pass to that vamp. Actually protecting that werewolf girl, and that hunter? Garth?"

"Garth? Bobby, you know. Tell him! It was...it was Garth!"

Bobby glowered at him. "You think that makes it better, boy? That's about a thousand times worse! Garth's a hunter, and he knows the deal. You eat the bullet; you don't go shack up with a family of wolves!"

Dean was trembling everywhere. He gripped his Blade like a lifeline. "No. He ain't hurting nobody. Dad, you don't know him, but...Dad, please. Things aren't as black and white as they used to be. I-I know it should be, but it just isn't."

"Of course it is, son," John told him, looking down at the man in disgust. "You're just weaker than you used to be. Only thing that's changed is you."

He found that he could not choke out a response.

"Get up, Dean."

The command threw him to his feet, and he willed himself to stare ahead and still his tears. _Like a good soldier,_ he thought bitterly. _Cas, I'm sorry. I really am just the grunt. I can't help it._

"So it comes down to me, like it always does when you screw up, Dean. The hunts you can't handle, the ones you aren't strong enough for. Had to help you with Azazel. You let your brother turn into a monster even after I told you what you had to do. You didn't destroy that angel that went nuclear, because you were too soft, too weak. And now you're the monster, and you haven't done what any honorable hunter would have done. You haven't done what I would have done."

"Dad," he breathed. "Please."

"I raised you to be stronger than this, Dean."

"We both did," Bobby added. "So you explain what went so wrong in your idjit brain that you ended up like this?"

John's eyes flashed with fury. "You tell me why I gotta come back to hunt you down, and you'll know why I ain't at peace."

***


	18. Matched Pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean suffers inside his own head, and Castiel and Sam prepare a rescue.

The tears were frozen on his face, and he held himself with what little pride he could muster. His father, both his fathers, were seeing him at his worst, at his most hateful, at his most disappointing. He would not hurt them more by not taking this like the man they thought they had raised. “I’m ready,” he breathed. “Just…please, Bobby, you gotta be ready to pray to Castiel for help. Just in case. I don’t think you’ll need it, not in this place. But you gotta be ready.” He wanted to close his eyes, not to avoid the blow which was coming, but because it would be his father delivering it.

John was stalking in front of him. His eyes were filled with the same shocked betrayal he had turned on Sammy when he had shot him in the leg with the Colt instead of finishing Azazel with a head shot. It was the same look of angry shame he had perceived when John had been forced to fire at the striiga that was threatening his little brother, because Dean had choked. It was John having to finish the job because his son was too weak. There was no monster that could rip out Dean Winchester’s heart the way those eyes could.

“You got something to say, son?” he murmured in that quiet, dangerous way of his.

Dean could barely breathe, and he was afraid to speak. He shook his head, staring hard in front of him as he awaited the execution.

“Just tell me why, boy,” Bobby hissed.

The green eyes snapped closed in defeat. That voice was the one Bobby forced out when he was crying, when he was so angry and so disappointed in Dean that he couldn’t stand it. It was the voice he had used when he had learned about Dean’s one year contract, the exasperation he had shown when Dean had emerged from that poker game in his twilight years, and every other time Dean had let him down.

“Dad,” he croaked. “Please, just do it.”

“You answer him, son.”

A flare of anger pulsed through him, and he turned to face his father. His hand was still gripping the First Blade. “You weren’t here! You don’t know!” he shouted, then clamped his mouth shut as he heard Sam’s voice echoing back at him, screaming similar words, the way he had when Castiel had pulled him out of the flames. Dean had asked the same things, wanted the same answers from Sam. “You were gone, and I was still here. I had to keep fighting, the only way I knew how,” he continued with a tight throat. “I had to become you.”

John was sneering at him in a way he had never done before. “I was never this. I was never a monster.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed sharply. He took hold of the Blade, felt its perfect, beautiful balance like an extension of his own arm. The Mark felt as though it had snaked down his wrist and tied itself to the Blade, making them one. “Bobby?” he said while glowering darkly into his father’s stare. “How’d you get here?”

“What does that have to do with anything? We were counting on you, boy!”

“Bobby? What’s my mother’s favorite song?”

“What the hell? Dean-“

“What is it, Bobby?”

The older man sighed with irritation. “Hey Jude. What does-“

“Why would you know that?” The Mark was itching. “Dad, what was the last thing Castiel said before Lucifer killed him? His very last word. What was it?”

“He said no, Dean. I don’t know why-“

“Because you don’t know those things. There’s no reason you would know those things, except they run through my head over and over again.”

John’s face was taking on a level of fury that was hard to look at, but Dean persisted defiantly. “We’ve been dead, Dean. We know things we didn’t know before.”

“No, because I’ve been dead too, and you don’t suddenly know things that you didn’t, not little details. If anything, things are even more mucked up than when you’re vertical. Either one of you, go ahead. Tell me something you would know that I don’t. Anything. Dad, what’s Henry’s middle name? Bobby, what’s Japanese for…for anything?”

“Enough!” Bobby shouted.

Dean took a step back, bringing the Blade up in front of him. “Or you wanna tell me who you are? How you’re inside my head? Why you’re using dead family to screw with me?”

Finally, John began to smile. His eyes flashed yellow just as Bobby’s turned pale white.

He sucked in a breath. “No. That’s not…”

“Where did you think demons went when they died, kid? Exorcism takes us to Hell, but you didn’t just exorcise us, did you? Me, you shot with old Sammy’s gun, and her little Sammy snuffed out with that pretty, pretty power I bled into him. Did you honestly believe we weren’t going come find you the minute you hit Purgatory without that angel on your shoulder?”

“But Benny…” Dean’s head was pounding now, and his limbs felt too heavy. The Blade had always been the perfect fit for his hand, but now it seemed too large, too awkward, weighted all wrong, as if it were trying to force him to drop it.

“What? You think I’m above working a little illusion? Had you going, though, didn’t I?” And then John’s face morphed into Sam’s, but the yellow eyes flashed green when a pulse of blue overwhelmed them. “I think I played him convincingly, don’t you?”

Now his stomach was churning. “Gadreel. He’s dead too, you jackass.”

“Am I, Dean? Or are you simply taking Castiel’s word for that?”

He glanced at Bobby, and stumbled backward when he saw the face around the white eyes had changed too.

“You probably think I’m dead too. You heard that from a demon who heard it from a news story, then a ghost?” Victor pointed into his chest, knocking him on his ass with the barest of touches. “Dean, come on! Wake up! I told you. Forty-five minutes. Lilith played with us for forty-five minutes. You think I can rest after that? I spent my life hunting monsters like you, Dean, but I didn’t know how literal that was. Then I met you and now I am one. No burst of white light for me. Purgatory is the only place that can handle what I’ve become.”

“Gadreel and Victor. Azazel and Lilith. Dad and Bobby. Benny and Gordon. What is this? Who are you?” A sudden realization sent a shockwave through him. “The Blade!” He tried to toss it to the ground, and was horrified to find he could not. “Where the hell did it come from? Crowley took it! What is this?”

The scream seemed to startle his own mind, and the images around him blurred into a smear. His heavy hands struggled to find something to hold onto, but they found him lying on a floor, not the gray dirt of Purgatory. Floor. Bunker.

Bunker.

His eyes fluttered open, and for just a moment, he could see the thing standing over him, knew the truth of the whole thing. The images were just in his head. Representatives of the Mark and its Blade. Every pair of them, the Mark and its Blade. Matched pairs, all of them. Gadreel had been an ally, then an enemy, then an ally in the end; Victor was a predator, then a believer, then they had fought him again as a Witness. Yellow Eyes and Lilith were the things that opened the doors for Lucifer, but they were also the things that had turned Sam’s eyes black. John and Bobby, his fathers, his heroes. Benny and Gordon? Sacrifices to save Sam; Benny was what Gordon had feared becoming, what he had hunted, and Gordon was what Sam had worried Benny truly was. Matched pairs, the Mark and its Blade.

But the clarity was gone in an instant when the figure standing above him reached down and put his long fingers to his forehead. Somewhere far away, through a thick fog, he could hear a crash and shouting that sounded a lot like Sam and Castiel, but then it was gone, and he was trapped again inside his own head.

“Weird dream,” he murmured to Lisa who lay beside him. “Want me to make breakfast for you and Ben?”

***

Admittedly, silver dipped in lamb’s blood was not easy to come by, but Sam had the advantage of a fully locked and loaded angel. Material components were never more than a thought away when Castiel was in true form.

The hunter smirked. “What took you so long?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow, but did not respond. They both knew he had been gone fewer than five seconds. “We are assuming this will kill him. He is not just a djinn, Sam-“

“He’s a reaper. I know. But it’s all we got unless you know something I don’t.”

“Undoubtably I know things you don’t, Sam.”

Sam smiled tightly. “Undoubtably. Only reaper I ever knew who got reaped was Azazel’s victim, and Tessa, I guess, kind of reaped herself.”

“Tessa was not-“

“You know what I’m talking about, Cas.”

“Yes, well…I just want you to see that-“

He nodded. “Yeah. We might be just pissing it off. But we’ve got to try. We can’t let him torture Dean.”

Castiel licked his lips and turned toward the entrance. “It likely already knows we are here. There is no point in weakening myself by bypassing the wards.”

“Through the front door then. Let’s go.”

He knew his angel was giving him another look of worry, but he ignored it. All that mattered right now was getting to Dean. He could deal with whatever damage the banshee had done after Dean was safe.

There was no creeping into the bunker. The door was too heavy for that. But they did their best. Sam noted that Castiel very deliberately placed himself in front of Sam as they moved into the sanctuary.

It was silent at first.

Sam’s hand gripped one of the two silver blades, and moved like a large cat around every corner, until he heard the horrible sound that threw him into action. It was Dean’s voice, no question, a strangled cry ripped from the mouth of a man who had nothing left. It was a scream, not of anger but of sheer, utter exhaustion, a pitiful wail of defeat he had never expected to hear from his brother. It chilled him to his core, and he rushed toward it, nearly blind with madness. Castiel ran with him, like a silent angelic shadow.

The djinn crouched on the floor beside Dean, touching his forehead, blue spirals dancing in his long fingers. He turned to stare at them with eyes so dark Sam would have called a demon’s pale.

“Get off of him!” he roared.

Castiel stepped between them, careful not to block Sam’s view but certain to receive any blow the djinn struck. “Dean?” he called. “Dean?”

“Get away from him! I swear to God I’ll kill you!”

Dean’s eyes were fluttering closed, and his head turned on a limp neck to face away from his brothers without another sound.

Castiel held his angel blade in one hand and the second silver knife in his other. Sam leapt forward past him, and he sprang into action as well. They surged toward the reaper as one body.

Lukøje dodged their attack with ease, leaping onto the nearby table. His swirling marks blazed like electric blue snakes. “You two are supposed to be sleeping,” he hissed. “Nasty hunter. And look at that! My banshee pet did not kill off the angel I fed her. How strange. Angels are her favorite, and she has not had one in so long…”

The hunter could feel his angel coiling to pounce as he raged forward to throw himself at the thing that dared threaten his brother. His feral scream echoed off the bunker walls. Sam lunged just as his angel’s wings expanded, and they came together in a beautiful tandem, crushing the djinn between their bodies, both blades plunged deep into his chest and back. It roared in anger and shoved them off of him, stumbling from the table to the floor and crawling with all his strength to Dean. The knives were still embedded in his flesh as he leaned over the prone man. Sam and Castiel dove at him, but not before he clasped onto Dean’s throat, sparks of stuttered blue flame shooting through his marked skin. Sam grabbed the thing by its own throat, and held tight against the impossible strength as Castiel drove his angel blade into its skull. When it fell, Sam stamped his boot down into its head for good measure.

Then he whirled on Dean while Castiel smote the last of the evil out of the thing.

“Don’t touch him!” Castiel cried with urgency.

Sam stopped cold. “What? Why?”

“That poison! It’s everywhere.”

He stepped back and looked around them frantically. “What do you mean?”

“You cannot perceive it,” Castiel grumbled, as if answering his own unasked question. He stood away from the body on the floor and put himself between the brothers. “It expelled its poison onto Dean, all of it. It’s everywhere.”

His breath came fast, as he realized it was not over yet. He looked up at Castiel and shrugged wildly. “What do we do? We can’t…he isn’t going to wake up on his own! And if we can’t touch him…”

“I know. But the poison will affect even me; we saw that before. This djinn was extremely powerful. We would not be able to awaken Dean anyway. If we attempt to do so, if we touch him, we will fall to the same fate.”

“Then what? We don’t know what’s going on in his head, Cas! And djinn dreams, they’re dangerous even if something isn’t feeding off them in the real world! He dies in there…”

Castiel nodded somberly. “I know,” he said again. “I will return as quickly as I can. Please, just don’t touch him. Do you understand?”

“Where are you going?”

“To find someone powerful enough to awaken him.”

“Cas, wait! Cas, Dean was able to join Charlie in her nightmare. I’m going to try to do the same thing.” He threw his hands up at the protest that was coming. “I’m doing this. If you find help, you’ll be able to save us both. If not…I’m not going to let my brother die alone. Whatever he’s facing in there, he needs me. Just go. And come back quickly.”

Castiel stared up at him for a moment, then sighed. “I should prevent you,” he muttered, but did not even bother finishing that statement. Instead, he touched Sam’s face gently. “Be careful, Sam. This djinn’s poison is powerful. If it can incapacitate me…Sam, it will be able to kill you.” 

“Then it can kill Dean too. I gotta try, Cas. Don’t look at me that way. You know I can’t just let him do this alone.” He smiled shakily. “Have you ever been in Dean’s head? It’s a freaking scary place.”

The angel did not smile. “And this reaper meant for it to be a torturous place, Sam. I won’t stop you from helping your brother.”

“You couldn’t,” Sam corrected defiantly.

The look he received was one of mild irritation, but Castiel continued. “Just be careful. I will return as quickly as I can.”

Sam could hear him sighing as he hurried to the door, but he focused now on his brother. Dean had shared Charlie’s nightmare once, and he and Castiel had somehow managed to connect while they were under Lukøje’s poison before. He would be there for his brother, even if they both died on this bunker’s floor.

He lowered himself to the ground, felt himself still trembling under the fog of his time with the banshee and the dregs of poison still in his system from the last time he had encountered the djinn, in the woods outside the bunker. But he lay on the floor beside his brother, then reached over to grab the man’s wrist, the one not Marked, the one that was still just Dean. Immediately, the poison flushed over him, and he was left entirely unaware of the real world.


	19. Demons to the Left of Me, Angels to the Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's stuck in the middle with Dean. Right where he belongs.

How many times had holy water been thrown at one of them? Usually it was Dean, but Sam had been hit with a vial by Samuel Colt, and that should make them even. But inside Dean's head, even if they had access to holy water, it made no difference. Iron, silver, none of it mattered because none of it was real.

Sam knew that. Still, Dean was adamant. "How do I know you're my brother? He dove into a pit meant to hold Satan himself. You trying to say you just broke out of that?"

"Dean, I'm trying to tell you you're dreaming. A djinn, the most powerful djinn we've ever seen, just flooded you with poison. He's got to be as potent as the alpha himself. And Cas is trying to find help, but it's going to eat you from the inside out."

Dean squinted at him. "Okay. Riddle me this. If this is a dream, then you're just a dream, so why should I listen to you? I think you're a revenant or shifter or ghoul or demon that got hold of enough of my brother's skin to wrap yourself in it. And then you came to find me, in my home where I protect my girl and my kid. And I'm going to kill you. For any of those reasons. I'm going to kill you."

 _Don't die in a djinn dream_ , his mind screamed at him. "Dean, wait. Look at your arm, okay?"

He was stalking toward Sam now. "Whatever you are, I'm guessing headshot will at least slow your ass down." He produced his 1911 from his waistband.

Sam backed away, his palms facing Dean. "Yeah," he agreed. "Because I'm human! Dean, look! The Mark! It's making you want to kill me. You don't want to kill me because you think I'm not your brother! You want to kill me because you know I am!"

Dean's approach halted abruptly. He stared in horror.

"Yeah," Sam said sadly. "See? You have that thing on your arm while you were living with Lisa?"

"Jesus."

"Whatcha got in your hand, man?"

Dean looked down at his gun to find that it was a different weapon entirely. "What the...?"

"Yeah," he said again. "You believe me now?"

"I'm not with Lisa and Ben anymore, am I?"

"Lisa doesn't know who you are. Neither does Ben."

The flinch on his brother's face pierced through his own heart. When he had arrived inside Dean's head, he had found himself in such a sea of domestic bliss that he wondered how Dean could possibly believe in it. Then he realized that this was not just a dream. This was a memory. And this was the happiness he had interrupted when he had popped out of hell wrong all those years ago. Dean even looked younger, he realized. Softer, and not in a bad way. This was a man who had laced his paint with salt and covered his window frames in it, who would never be able to get to sleep without checking for his holy water and saying a quick prayer to Castiel and a whispered apology to an absent brother, but all things considered, he was as happy as he was ever going to be.

"I guess this makes us more than even, big brother. For you dragging my ass out of Stanford."

Dean had whirled around at the sound of his voice, and Lisa and Ben froze as they were, laughing together over their breakfast plates.

They had lost valuable time as Sam had to convince his brother of the truth, by breaking his heart. At that moment, it ceased to be Dean's dream and became Sam's nightmare as he saw what his soulless counterpart had seen so long ago. A thousand conflicting emotions all over Dean's face, and this time he understood every one of them. Worst was watching Dean try to smother his own desperate hope that his kid brother was alive.

But the moment he had reminded Dean that Lisa and Ben did not know him, the entire world dimmed to a harsh grey in an instant. It punched Sam in the stomach to finally, truly understand what had been ripped out of Dean when he had given up these people.

Dean looked back at Ben as he and his mother and even their home faded from this imaginary world. Green eyes stared at the boy's face for as long as it could still be seen. Then he swallowed and looked back at his brother. The lines had returned to his face, as had the hardness and weariness.

"Good," Dean said finally. "Good. They're safe. That's all I want."

"I'm so sorry, man."

The voice was gruffer, older than a moment ago. "Okay. If this is a djinn dream, why are you here? Shouldn't you be out there somewhere saving my ass? Or did it get its juice in you too?"

Sam screwed up his face at that. "Dude."

A tight smirk was his response. "Calling it like it is, Sammy. So, what? You don't have dreams and nightmares of your own? You gotta come share mine?"

"I came in to see what kind of weird ass dreams you have, you deviant."

Dean nodded. Somehow, that explained everything. "So you're just stupid enough to come in and die with me. Awesome. Cas is on the job?"

"Yeah. We gotta keep your ass alive till then."

Dean frowned suddenly. "What happened to you two? I remember something about...I was looking for you. You two were...hunting a banshee?"

"Something like that. More like it was hunting us. I'll tell you about it when we get to the real world."

"All right. I'm starting to remember. The djinn?"

"Dead. Cas and I got him with lamb's blood and with an angel blade, and just to be sure, Cas smote the son of a bitch."

Dean's eyes widened. "Bit of overkill?"

"Not for this thing. Trust me. Come on. I don't know what you dream about, but in my dreams, you're never safe staying in one place for long."

His brother nodded. "Bring it on, bitches. The Mark is hungry, and I'm pissed."

It was just as well he was, because it was less than a moment later when Alastair arrived with Ruby.

"Seriously, Dean?" Sam growled.

"What? I remember now; I already ran into Yellow Eyes and Dad earlier. Yellow Eyes in Dad. This ain't so bad." But even he sounded like he did not believe that.

"Your subconscious sucks," he shouted as he dove out of Ruby's reach.

Alistair grinned and flipped Dean into a wall that seemed to have appeared just for that purpose. It seemed there would always be a wall to throw a Winchester against when a monster needed one. "Hello, Dean," the demon sneered in that horrific, nasal lilt of his. "Miss me?"

Ruby smirked. "Howdy, Sam. Miss me?"

"Jesus," Dean choked. "Can't anyone just fight? All my life listening to black eyed bitches and fanged things try to talk me to death!"

Sam glanced at him in time to see him grip his First Blade and tear himself out of Alistair's invisible grasp. He laughed at Ruby's surprise. "What's the matter, you bitch? You didn't think we'd leveled up since the Apocalypse?" He threw himself at her as Dean flew into Alistair beside him.

Ruby's knife was in his own hand. Just as Dean's subconscious had summoned up his favored weapon, Sam clutched his own. Every demon that died on that blade was Ruby. Every single one. From the moment she had revealed herself, Sam had wanted to be the one to end her. She had done this. Forget Yellow Eyes. Forget Lucifer. They had never pretended to be something they were not. The shame of addiction, the agony of withdrawal, his time in Hell, years of crushing guilt and incapacitating self-doubt, it was all Ruby. And here she was. Real or not, he would destroy that manipulative bitch with her own knife. Then he would never think of it as Ruby's knife again. It would be Sam's knife.

Dean's Blade was hacking at Alistair without mercy. Beyond the blood rushing through his ears and Ruby's screams, he could hear Hell's greatest sadist attempting to taunt his brother until his final breath. But Dean was finished listening to talk.

The demons died shrieking within seconds of one another. The brothers stepped back, panting, as the bodies crashed to the ground. Each stared at his kill for a moment, then they turned to one another.

"So? What? Who's next? If you're running us through our greatest hits..."

Dean shrugged and rubbed absently at his arm. "You think I got any control over this? Eve? Dick Roman? Alpha shifter, alpha vamp? I don't know!"

The voice behind them made their hot blood run cold. They turned very slowly, and Sam took in a deep breath.

His brother nodded. "Death."

"Hello, Dean," the Horseman said smugly. "Your angel companion-you know, the one you wanted me to kill for you? He came to ask for my help."

"Are you real?" Sam blurted in exhaustion. Now that the fight with Ruby was won, he was feeling dizzy and drained, and he was reminded how little recovery time Castiel had been able to talk him into after the banshee.

Death looked at him with the level of disdain only Death was capable of. "There will never be a time when I am not real, Sam. You may dream of anything else in the universe, but never of me."

Dean frowned sharply. "Wait. I...I remember dreaming of you. Not long ago."

"Did you?"

He took a breath. "No. You just came to me in my dream."

"Some days, it is truly difficult for me to believe you ameboid things halted an Apocalypse."

"For me too," Dean admitted quietly.

"It seems a former pupil of mine has turned up to cause mischief. A djinn reaper who was quite the prodigy before I turned him out when he insisted on muddying up my operation with unnecessary complications, namely leaving those meant to be reaped comatose instead. A coma is a holding option, meant to provide time when necessary. This reaper found it preferable in all cases, for reasons I do not care to understand. So I released him of my employ."

Sam sighed. "Yeah? Well, he's been running with a hartzeer freak, feeding off hunters!"

"A hart-what?"

"I'll tell you later."

Dean nodded. "Right." Then he took on a smile.

This was the smile Dean got at the least appropriate moments, such as when that ambulance chaser was hit by the bus sporting his own advertisement, or when they were ankle-deep in the blood of Eve's hybrids and Bobby let him name them. Sam held his breath and prayed to his lover that Dean didn't piss off the Horseman with whatever stupid thing he had thought to say.

"So this djinn was your student. You cut him off from the hub. And he went nuclear. And you lost track of him." The older man sauntered a few steps toward the most powerful, most ancient being in the universe, and Sam let his breath out slowly as he prepared for Dean's inevitable end. "So, I guess it's my turn, then, huh?"

"Dean..." The name was said simultaneously by Sam and Death, both attempting to warn the hunter to watch what he said next.

But this was apparently the highlight of Dean's time as a hunter. Sam had not seen him so full of himself since he had outdrawn the Phoenix in 1861.

"Yes, sir. My turn." He smiled broadly and looked directly into Death's eyes without fear. "Clean up your mess."

There was a moment of silence and stillness before Death raised an eyebrow very slightly and Sam could breathe again. "Yes. I'll do that. Dean, don't make me have to come into your head again. It is...quite a dreadful place."

While Dean considered that remark, Sam piped up quickly. "The Mark! Sir, can you...are you able to..."

He looked at Sam with an air of boredom. "And you think Cain never thought of that? Get it under control, Dean. After all, do you even know what Cain has been up to since you unleashed his wrath on the world again? Get yourself under control or you'll have no hope of doing so with him."

All humor had left Dean's green eyes. He nodded slowly. "Yes, sir," his voice rumbled.

"And do keep an eye on that arrogant angel of yours."

With that, Death disappeared, and less than a second later, Sam gulped in a breath and sat up from where he lay next to Dean on the bunker floor. He turned to find his brother waking slower, groaning as though every muscle ached. Then he looked around him. Death was gone, but an angel's intense blue stare was on him. He smiled shakily.

Castiel let out a deep breath from his vessel's lungs. "It's good to see you, Sam," he murmured. "And you, Dean. Are you both all right?"

Dean groaned loudly and let his head fall back against the floor again. "Peachy," he snapped.

"We're fine, Cas. Thank you for bringing the cavalry."

Two figures stepped out from Sam's periphery, and he and Dean both startled. Hannah frowned down at the dead reaper. She waved her hand over it, and it was gone from their sight. "I will send a detachment from the Legion, Castiel. I will have Yahoel lead them. No hartzeer will survive the purge. I promise you that." She looked up. "And it will be a task to help give purpose to a splintered Legion."

Castiel smiled at her fondly. "You are a good leader, Hannah."

"I am a soldier, Castiel, one of many. I do what I can, as it is all I can do. But I know how difficult it is to sit when you have been trained to fight. We were meant to be battling Lucifer's throngs these days, Castiel, not one another. A task such as this will give a unifying purpose to a corps which is enjoying an anxious peace within itself."

He nodded. "I will be there in a few days to see how things are going. I promise."

Sam watched Hannah as she smiled tightly at Castiel. Then she looked up at where Sam had lifted himself to his full height. "Thank you. For calling to me. Castiel and I were able to find Death. I wish I could have prevented the attack on your brother, on both of you. But I appreciate that you called to me. Castiel...he chose his friends better than I gave him credit for." She turned and exited the bunker without another word, and before Sam could respond.

"And what about you, Smarmy? You just here for the show?" Dean was standing weakly now, and he was holding his arm.

Balthazar smiled. "Yes, because I've nothing better to do than consume ape circus entertainment. I'm here to provide you what little I can for that acne scar you have."

Dean stared. "You got something for my Mark?"

"I told you I did. I simply needed to locate it."

The hunter rolled his eyes. "Last time you lost a cache of toys, Sam and me ended up in freaking TV land!"

"Do you want it or not?"

Castiel spoke up quickly. "We are grateful for the trouble you've been through."

"Anything for Cassie's pets." He opened his hand and held out a black, braided leather cord.

"What is that? That's going to wash this Mark off me?"

Castiel shook his head. "No, Dean," he said quietly as he gazed thoughtfully at Balthazar's offering. "But it will help you control it."

"Control it," Sam said. "That's what Death told us."

"So what does it do?"

Castiel took the cord and proceeded to tie it around Dean's wrist. "It is made from the leather sling used by a brave and devout man called David. It will enable you to direct a portion of the Mark's wicked energy into a less malicious purpose. It is meant to help one conquer one's own vices and personal demons."

Sam frowned down at him. "Wait. You're talking about David...and Goliath?"

Castiel met his gaze. "Yes. Of course."

"So Goliath wasn't a literal giant? He was just this guy's whacked out brain?"

The blond angel gave an all-suffering sigh. "Cas, do you remember a time in their history when humans didn't think they knew everything?"

"No."

"Neither do I," he responded. "Look, you monkey, it's quite simple. You must control the madness before my dear Cassie has to put you down. I wouldn't miss you personally, since I don't like you much. But for the sake of those who would, I suggest yoga, good wine, much sex, and not losing your new fashion accessory. Can you handle that?"

Dean glowered at him.

"Dean, it gave David the relief he needed to overcome the monster inside him. It will do the same for you."

Sam watched as Dean's jaw clenched. "It doesn't fix the problem."

"No," Castiel admitted softly. "But Balthazar and I were both there, inside David's private war within his own heart. And I agree with my brother that this is our best chance. You will find relief after wearing this for a time. You will be able to rest. The Mark will quiet some."

"But not go away."

"It may never go away, Dean. This will help you learn to manage it, as Cain somehow did. Over time, you will need it less and less. But for now, let it help you sleep."

Sam knew his brother's eyes better than he knew anything in the world. If Balthazar were not there, the man might have erupted into tears of exhaustion. As it was, he trembled with the effort stoicism cost him. He nodded without speaking, and backed away to slink into his own bedroom. Sam watched him go, then turned to the angels.

"Thank you. For the cord. I appreciate whatever you had to go through to get it. If anybody ever had a giant to battle, it's my brother."

Balthazar smiled, and for the first time, Sam thought it might be the genuine thing. "Says the man who took on two of our big brothers and won."

The hunter smirked. "Three. But who's counting?"

"Ah, yes. Poor Gabriel. I would have paid with my finest to have seen him glaring from inside a ring of holy fire. Uncle Raph too, Cas."

"I'll invite you next time I see one of them," Castiel promised with a hand on his shoulder.

"I bet," Balthazar answered dryly. "Fine. Keep the leash on your pet and you should find him less...demonic within a few hours, I should think."

"Thank you, brother."

"Goodbye, Castiel. For now."

***


	20. May I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weary but not sleepy, Sam and Castiel air out the feelings that were kicked up during their day, and discuss consent issues, as awkwardly and honestly as they do anything else.

There would likely never come a time when Sam was not a little bit in awe of his angel's love for him. He watched the great care Castiel took in leading him to the bedroom and laying him down to rest.

"I'm not tired, Cas," he murmured.

"No. But your body is trying to reconcile with new scabs over old scars. Let it rest."

He frowned up at him. "What do you mean?"

The blue eyes met his. "You and Dean have been forced to relive some of the most horrible moments of your past these few weeks, especially today. You thought you were in the cage with Lucifer, Sam."

He nodded. "And Dean thought he was in Purgatory and at Lisa's place. Makes it kind of creepy to think how easily your brain accepts illusion. Are we really in the bunker? Are you really you?"

Castiel nodded. “As me as I ever was. Yes, Sam. The bunker is real. You and I are real. Dean is real.” He placed a hand on Sam’s cheek so lightly it almost could not even be felt.

Sam watched powerful black wings stretch up but not out, as though the angel were using them to shrug wearily. “Cas?”

“Sam, if you had not managed to awaken me back at that church…Had I not felt your anger and used it to fuel my own…Sam, that thing would have killed you.”

“Things are always trying to kill me, Cas. Part of the job.”

But the angel frowned at that. “This was not part of the job. This was not something you pursued. This is something that hunted you.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But it was because of what we do. The banshee, he…she said we were targeted because we’re two hunters and an angel. Because Lukøje sought out hunters in particular, and the banshee dick had a thing about angels.”

“It heard Dean’s desire to sleep. That’s what drew it to us. That he asked me to help him sleep instead of live with the Mark or die with it. That brought the reaper. And its banshee companion took the chance to torment us while Lukøje attacked your brother. Sam, I experienced your nightmares.”

The hunter flinched. “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

The blue eyes were on him, staring as if trying to see into the man’s heart. “Sam, I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to share more with me.”

Sam sat up suddenly. A tiny ball of fear was unraveling in his stomach. “What?”

Castiel licked his lips in that way that told Sam he was trying to find the right words. “Sam, I felt your tendons snap above your heels, felt them spring through your calves.”

A phantom pain stung his legs at the description. “Yeah, it was kind of awful.”

“I never want you to feel pain that you don’t let me feel. Never again. I never want to be…” He stopped to find the phrase. “I never want to be blissfully ignorant of your pain again. Imagining it…is nothing compared to feeling it. I know you will never be able to leave this life, Sam, and you will inevitably be hurt again. But now that I’ve felt a werewolf hybrid tear your hamstrings, and had to know that was not just a nightmare but a memory…Sam, I can’t not know again.”

“You healed me, Cas. That’s enough.”

“It isn’t enough!” the angel snapped back. “I have the ability to know your pain. If you won’t let me keep you from it, take you away from this violent life forever, then the least I can do is experience your pain with you. I saw Hell, Sam! Not the Hell I knew, not burning wings and screaming souls. Not an angel filled with purpose and arrogance, flying to rescue a good man’s soul. I saw what you saw. I felt what it was like to have no hope that an angel was coming for you. Instead of the anesthetic of combat adrenaline as I tore through demons to get to you, I felt what it was to believe the fires and the cage were eternal. Angels have no souls, Sam. If I die? Really die, and there is no resurrection? I’m gone. Reapers come to clean us up, Sam, not to escort us anywhere else. They collect the burned out Grace, and that’s the end. If I had died trying to rescue you in Hell, that defeat would have been the end for me, but you would have lived there in eternity. I should at least feel any pain you feel. It is the smallest thing I can do.”

Sam’s throat was tight with tears. He took a breath. “Cas, I can’t…If you don’t like the idea of me hurt, why would I want to share pain with you? Why would I want to think of you hurt?”

“I am no longer ignorant, blissfully or otherwise. I was once nearly so human as you, and I’ve now been victim to the same nightmares. I cannot be ignorant any longer. I’m asking your consent to touch your mind and know what you know.”

“You don’t need my consent for that, Cas. You can just take that.”

The blue eyes raised to meet his with distress in them. “I will not take from you what you don’t choose for me to have. Never. You would never do so to me. Sam, I love you. With all my heart, I love you. I will never do anything that would put my strength above yours.”

It was as though, without realizing it, he had been holding a breath for weeks, and he let it out now. Tears that not long ago, no one alive but Dean had ever witnessed, came flooding down now. His throat choked with them, felt strangled.

Castiel hurried to kneel beside the bed, and looked up at his face with such dark concern that it nearly seemed like prayer. “Sam? I’ve hurt you, but I don’t know how. Please tell me.”

Sam was shaking his head, trying to tell his angel that it was not his fault, that he had said just the right thing, just what Sam needed to hear, but no words could get past the tightness in his throat. He was gasping now.

“Please, Sam. Father forgive me, I’ll do anything. I never meant to hurt you.”

It was then that some small part of Sam’s brain realized just how shaken Castiel was from their ordeal of the day. He did not remember the angel ever calling upon his Father, even just as a turn of phrase, and certainly not for forgiveness. He wondered numbly if Castiel was asking for forgiveness because he had hurt Sam or because he was willing to do anything to make it better.

“Cas,” he forced out. “No, it’s all right.”

“It doesn’t seem all right, Sam. I’ve hurt you somehow.”

“No.” Sam gripped the angel’s hands and made himself smile past the tears as only he knew how. “No, Cas.”

“Then what?”

Sam’s mind floated back to every time he had been at the mercy of a creature which was strong enough to manipulate him, every human and monster who had used his body and his heart against his will. Azazel, Meg, Ruby, Lucifer, they were the obvious ones, the ones who had entered and poisoned his body. Gadreel of course, had tricked him into consent he never really meant to give. But there had also been Becky Rosen and that Gary kid, and even the freaking wicked witch from Oz. Leviathans had taken his form and his knowledge, used it to kill innocent people. There were the monsters, like the ghost of that old asylum that had turned him against Dean; the siren had done the same. How many others? It was a constant in his life that someone was always trying to use his body and heart against him. At least Lucifer had needed his permission. Every other instance was a sleazy thing crawling into or onto his body, poisoning him and using him. The banshee swimming in his grief and nightmares was just the latest intrusion.

And of course he knew Castiel could do that too. Castiel might need his permission to enter his vessel, but he certainly did not need it to access his thoughts, to force him into things beyond his consent. He had not needed it to tear down Death’s wall years ago. Two fingers and the will to do it had been all that was required then. So Castiel loved him now. What did that change, really? Sam had been invaded a dozen times, by angels, by demons, by monsters and by humans. He never wanted to feel something inside his skin or his head again. And he would rather die than know it was Castiel who was using him.

But here was his angel, kneeling before him as if he would worship him, and swearing that he would never take from him anything he did not choose to give willingly. And Father forgive _him_ , but he believed it. This was not the same desperate Castiel who had broken the wall to buy himself time to open Purgatory. This was a Castiel who knew what it felt like to be controlled by others. Not just the angels before the Apocalypse, but the Leviathans had used Castiel, and Naomi, then Metatron. This Castiel had been all but human and all but God, and now he was simply an angel again, filled by a Grace called into existence by Sam himself. And he was promising he would never hurt Sam again.

“Cas, I love you.”

The angel’s face lit with hope. “Sam, what’s wrong? What did I say?”

He pulled him up onto the bed beside him. “Exactly what I needed to hear, Cas. I didn’t even know it was something I needed till you said it.”

Castiel’s blue eyes flickered over his face as he tried to recall what had just been said. “You mean…that I would not force myself on you? To read your thoughts without your consent?”

Sam touched his face. “You may have any thoughts of mine, Cas, because they’re all about how much I love you. Everything in my mind is love for you. And trust. I trust you like I’ve never been able to trust anyone but Dean, maybe Bobby. Anything you want from me is yours, because I know you won’t just take it.”

“Never, Sam. I have too much respect for you to ever do that to you. You would not do that to me.”

It occurred to Sam that Castiel had said this twice now. He smiled into a face so wide open with love and adoration that it filled his heart to bursting. “No,” he confirmed. “You know me, Cas. I would never hurt you, even if I could. I’m sorry I got upset. I didn’t even know that was something I was fixed on until just now. I’ve been possessed and manipulated so many times, I guess it’s always been there in the back of my head that you could force me into something if you wanted to. God, Cas, half the time I wake up and I don’t know where I am or who I am. I’ve come awake to find myself tied up or tied down so many times, I couldn’t even tell you. So the fact that you could force me into something…It doesn’t matter how strong I am. I can’t fight against you if you wanted to hurt me. So this is me trusting you, even after everything that’s ever happened to teach me not to. And this is me telling you that you can trust me too.”

“Sam, may I sleep beside you tonight?”

His smile softened, and it seemed to spread relief through his whole body. “Of course, Angel. Climb in. Dean’s fine, then?”

“As fine as he will be.”

“Then let’s sleep.” He took a breath. “Can you bring your wings to bed with you?”

The blue eyes narrowed. “I…I always have them with me, Sam.”

He laughed. “Of course you do, Angel.”


	21. All's Well...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last trip to the lake, and a bit more angel lore.

Dean had obviously been up, but was back to bed before they emerged in the morning. Castiel checked on him, and returned to report that the man was sleeping peacefully.

“He going to be okay?”

“For now, Sam. He has gotten some relief from the cord, but in the end we have only bought ourselves some time. But, yes. For now, he rests comfortably.”

It was the best they could hope for, and it would have to be enough.

“All right. I need some fresh air, but last time we took a walk around here, we were abducted and tortured.”

A dry smile creased Castiel’s eyes. “Yes. That tends to happen to me a lot more since I fell in with Winchesters.”

Sam shrugged. “To be fair, it happens to us a lot more since we’ve known you too.” He took the angel’s arm. “Can we go to our lake?”

“Of course, Sam.” He ducked his head slightly. “I’m…pleased that you refer to it as our lake.”

He scrawled a quick note to Dean, then turned back with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Castiel felt his wings bristle with pleasure. They exited the bunker and he took them to their place of peace effortlessly. He watched as Sam breathed in the air through his nose. There had been a bit of an afternoon shower there before they had arrived, so the air was clean and damp. Castiel watched Sam wander toward the water’s edge.

"I want you to teach me more."

Castiel almost did not hear him speak, so focused was he on his hunter's strong back and his light, careful steps. It was as though the sound of his voice was moving slower than it should, through the fog of Castiel's split attention.

"Cas?"

"Yes," he responded then. "Teach you more about what?"

It was Sam who hesitated then. A slow, playful smile was lighting his face when he turned again. "Would you take off your shirt again? So I can see where your wings meet your back."

The angel nodded. "If you do the same, I can show you where yours would be."

Sam's smile widened. "I'd be the worst angel," he laughed, and pulled off his tee.

Castiel could see that Sam still found it awkward to bare his skin in the daylight. He found this trait endearing somehow. He untangled himself from his sweater and tee shirt as well, and turned his back to Sam. His wings shivered in delicious expectation of the man's touch.

There it came, Sam's strong, large hands, calloused and hard but gentle and reverent all the same. Both hands slid across his skin, wrapping around to clasp together at his navel. He could feel Sam's head bent down to rest in the soft feathers.

"Teach me," the muffled voice said. "Please."

He could not suppress the impulse to stretch his wings far to either side, to give Sam a show. He laughed at his own vanity. "This? What I'm doing now? It's a prideful indulgence," he explained ruefully.

Sam lifted his head to see Castiel at his full wingspan. "Why?" he breathed.

He continued to chuckle softly. "Because it's a posturing display. Something an angel does to either show dominance over another or to entice a mate."

The human was smirking when he turned to see his reaction. "So? Which is it?" he whispered.

A pink flush of pride coated Castiel's chest to see how dark Sam's eyes were getting at the sight of his gesture. "To a potential mate, it would be a show of strength. I would be allowing you to judge my ability to protect you. I would be exposing my greatest weapon for your inspection. And you would determine if I were good enough. If so, you would lower your wings under mine. If not, you would either fold yours and be on your way, or you would push yours out in your own display, challenging me to fight or back down."

"That's a rough way to reject a guy," Sam laughed. "Your wings aren't pretty or strong enough so I'm going to fight you instead of sleep with you? That's harsh."

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "It allows for one to...save face, as you say. It is actually the preferred way of rejecting an offer. The respectful way. It shows that you acknowledge the angel's power but are not willing to submit to it."

"It's not you, it's me."

He tilted his head very slightly. "I...suppose..."

"So you can have baby angels?"

"What?" Castiel's wings folded in defensively.

Sam gave a quiet snicker. "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm saying that's the biological purpose of being driven to mate."

He relaxed a bit. "Yes, I suppose. But it is nothing like a mammalian conception. It is the mixing of two angelic streams of Grace, or in the case of an angel and human, an angel's Grace mixing with a soul. A shard of new Grace is created and it either forms new life or it does not, according to the whims of nature and my Father's will. It is extremely rare that any angel would allow such a thing. It is far more complex an undertaking than among human families. The creation of a new seraph, for example, requires the consent of Michael himself."

"But Michael is locked away."

"Yes. So there will be no other angels of my rank."

Sam's lips parted and he took a step back to stare at Castiel. "Wait. I locked Michael in the cage, and that means no more angels?"

Castiel smiled sadly. "There are no more archangels. And no more Father willing to make them. New Grace needs the blessing of an archangel to thrive. Without it, it will wither. That is part of the taboo surrounding Nephilim. They may survive without blessing, because of their human heritage, but they will never be a complete soul nor can they truly possess Grace. No archangels means no new Grace. Metatron at his strongest or I at mine may have been able to bless a new life, but neither of us did so."

"My God, Cas."

He shrugged. "Perhaps it is just as well. Every species ends. And ours is quite long lived. Assuming we do not continue to make war among ourselves, there may be angels in this place for the rest of time. In any case, when I say our number is not unlimited, it is true, and far more so than ever before."

Sam had a look about him that seemed almost contrite. "So...so Michael blessed your life?"

"Yes. He is my commander. Was my commander." Eons of habit were not erased over the course of a few short years. "It is why the archangel brethren are alternatively referred to as our uncles. Every angel originated from at least one of them, in the form of a blessing or from their own Grace. In my case, it was Michael who allowed my being."

"I'm sorry, Cas."

Castiel laughed finally. "I hope you are not sorry for averting the Apocalypse. Michael created only soldiers anyway. Raphael was ever stingy with his blessings. His domain was healing and death. He sought utter perfection before he would extend his blessing. I would never have survived his scrutiny," he added bitterly.

"Then I'm grateful to Michael," Sam murmured.

"As am I. Though serving him for millennia must needs be enough of a return. One can only remain grateful for being allowed to exist for so long. In the end, he did not earn my service when he wanted it, when he needed it. Not like Dean did." He was quiet for a moment, then he continued. "When it came to bestowing his blessing, Gabriel was unpredictable."

"You don't say," his human sneered.

Castiel looked up to confirm that he was indulging in sarcasm. "Yes. There seemed to be very little reason or method to his decision to bless or ignore a new life. Zachariah was one of his, for example, but so are all the great thrones and scribes."

"And Lucifer?" Sam asked quietly.

He smiled softly then, and reached out to touch the man's cheek. "You know."

Sam frowned, thinking back to sensations of emotion, to images spectacular and horrific, and notes of ethereal, eerie music which had run through his mind every time his thoughts had drifted to Lucifer over the years. "Art," he said finally. "Something to do with art."

"Essentially. Lucifer created the Choir, the Muses, and the Virtues."

"And the demons."

"And the demons," Castiel agreed.

Sam scoffed a bit. "Well, he was a drama queen. Makes sense."

Castiel assumed that was a type of derogatory remark at his older sibling's expense, so he let it go without comment. "What else would you like to know, Sam?"

"You said you'd show me where my wings should be."

Pleasure soothed back eternal aches which had begun bubbling up in him. He would always ache for those of his brethren he would never feel again, and those who would not meet his eyes or extend to touch his Grace anymore. But he was a whole new creature now, and whatever it was he now represented, he knew only that he existed because of Sam and for him.

"Cas?"

"I love you, Sam."

The hunter's eyes returned the smile.

He reached out to manually turn the man to access his back. With his thumbs, he traced two lines over his back, caressing the muscle between the backbone and the lowest ribs. "Here," he breathed into his human's ear. "Your wings would be right here." He slotted himself behind him so Sam could look up and see the wings as though they came from his own back.

Sam laughed in the shy way he sometimes did when he thought he was enjoying something more than he probably should. "God, I love you, Castiel."

"I'm glad of that, Sam."

Sam twisted in his grip so that they were chest to chest, and it was nearly reflex to rest his forehead into Sam's soft throat. He could feel strong hands sliding over his skin, until the fingers were brushing his scapular down.

Castiel could not help the purring noise which came from his mouth. It had been so long since anyone had deliberately touched his wings, had touched him at all except in combat, save for the rare and invaluable embrace from a grateful Winchester. How long would he have gone without touch if he had never been tasked with saving the Righteous Man? Without much doubt, he knew the answer. He would have died battling Lucifer's armies without ever having felt it. Even if he had survived the war, the clashing which would have mortally wounded humanity and most of the rest of the life on the planet which would have quaked beneath it, even if he were one of those to make it through, he would have emerged too heartsick and too jaded to have let anyone get close to him. Time is fluid, and an angel at times gets a glimpse into what could have been. He knew there would be no Castiel if there had been no Winchesters.

And a small twinge of pride settled in him to know there would be no Winchesters if there had been no Castiel. Perhaps, just for a sinful moment, he would one day card through his memories to count the number of times they would have been destroyed without him. It would never match what they had done for him, but he liked to remind himself that his Father might have brought them each back a dozen times or more, but without a particular broken angel watching over them, these men he loved so dearly would certainly have never beaten the odds against them.

Castiel the Fallen was the title given him in awed whispers in Heaven. He wore that badge with honor, but here on Earth, he was Castiel the Winchester, and he had earned that battle-forged and bloody coat of arms which was scarred into his loyal heart. That pride, that fierce love, was eternal.

"Come on, Angel," Sam whispered to him. "You have more to teach me."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and apple pie makes it all worth it. 
> 
> ~Posing


End file.
